


Though My Soul Has Set in Darkness

by BrighteyedJill



Series: The Astronomer Series [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, BDSM, Collars, Dom/sub, M/M, Slavery, Undercover, Wordcount: Over 50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chekov has recovered from a year spent in captivity after an away mission gone wrong; he’s repaired relationships with his friends and built a new love with a certain surly ship’s doctor. A new undercover mission could offer Chekov closure, but other crew members object to putting himself in danger again. Chekov knows he’s strong enough to face his fears, but can he convince those closest to him that this mission is worth the risk?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content advisory:** implied and remembered non-con, graphic dub con, implied underage, slavery and inherent consent issues, messing around with people’s minds, violence, non-graphic torture, aphrodisiac substances employed deviously (none of it perpetrated by the good guys), and angst.
> 
>  **Fanmixer:** [](http://echoinautumn.livejournal.com/profile)[**echoinautumn**](http://echoinautumn.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Fanmix:** [Music!](http://echoinautumn.livejournal.com/60276.html)  
>  **Artist:** [](http://users.livejournal.com/acquiescence_/profile)[**acquiescence_**](http://users.livejournal.com/acquiescence_/)  
>  **Art link:** [Poster, banner, and icons](http://users.livejournal.com/acquiescence_/136393.html)  
>  This story is a sequel to [ We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly…](http://brighteyed-jill.livejournal.com/69066.html), my big bang entry from last year. I'd recommend reading that first, check out the below:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Previously, on _Star Trek_ : While on an away mission on a seemingly safe planet, Chekov vanishes without a trace. McCoy, to whom Chekov had just confessed his attraction, and Sulu, his best friend, lead the effort to search for him without result. A year later, McCoy goes with Kirk and Spock on an undercover mission to a planet that trades in slaves. At the auction there, McCoy recognizes Chekov, and purchases him. However, Chekov has no memory of McCoy, the Enterprise, or anything else prior to his life as a slave. His captors had tampered with his memory, and rendered him mute for his defiance. McCoy brings Chekov back to the Enterprise and, with the assistance of the rest of the crew, helps Chekov feel safe again. However, McCoy is convinced that Chekov’s attempts to win his affection are simply residual effects of his slave training. With McCoy’s encouragement and Spock’s mind-meld capabilities, Chekov is able to defeat the mental blocks his captors had put in place, regain his memories, and convince the Doctor that his feelings are genuine. But questions about the aftermath of Chekov's captivity, as well as the current status of the slave-trading syndicate, still linger..._

“Though my soul may set in darkness, It will rise in perfect light,  
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”  
– Sarah Williams [The Old Astronomer to His Pupil](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Old_Astronomer_to_his_Pupil)

 

 

Doctor Leonard McCoy ran his finger over the small, square package in his hand. The creased lines of its wrapping reminded him a little of the diagrams of skeletons in his old medical textbooks, which reminded him that he had to file a report about Crewman Haidar’s wrist fracture, and that meant digging that chart out of his records, and that was not at all what he should be worried about right now. The rec room buzzed with quiet conversation that served as a comforting distraction from his churning thoughts. He looked up at the door for the fifteenth time in three minutes and said, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Hush.” Uhura patted his shoulder. “They’ll be here any minute.”

“Are you sure?” Kirk asked. “If Scotty starts expounding on one of his great theories, he might forget this experiment he’s supposed to showing Chekov is a ruse.”

Spock leaned over. “I did mention to Lieutenant Keenser that he should intervene if Mr. Scott should forget his charge.”

“Thanks,” McCoy grumbled.

“Why are you nervous?” Uhura moved closer, speaking only to McCoy under the buzz of the gathered crew members. “He’s not going to be angry at you for organizing a birthday party.”

“You never know.” McCoy shook his head. “Maybe he had something different in mind. I shouldn’t be making decisions for him.”

Uhura’s smile soothed him. “Doing something nice for your boyfriend isn’t the same as trying to control his life. Besides, Pavel is perfectly capable of expressing his opinion.”

“That’s true.” McCoy smiled ruefully as he remembered how hard Chekov had fought to convince McCoy to be with him in the first place.

“They’re coming!” Sulu called from the console by the door. He punched in a command, and the lights dimmed to ten percent.

Uhura pulled McCoy down behind a couch as other crew members sought what little cover the other furniture and equipment provided. The whole group fell silent. McCoy, who didn’t believe in letting curiosity go unsatisfied, leaned out to the side of the couch to watch the entrance. The package in his hands seemed to weigh him down out of all proportion.

The door slid open to reveal Scotty, Keenser, and Chekov outlined against the bright backlighting of the corridor.

“What has happened to the lights?” came Chekov’s voice.

“Now,” Kirk stage-whispered from his hiding place behind a holo-projector.

“Surprise!” A score of crew members shouted together as the lights jumped to full.

McCoy didn’t shout as he pulled himself up from behind the couch. His entire attention focused on Chekov, waiting to intervene if he reacted badly.

Chekov burst into delighted laughter and waved a finger accusing at Scotty. “I started to wonder about your so-called experiment, sir.”

“Humph. I thought I strung you along pretty well,” Scotty said.

Keenser made a disapproving clicking sound.

Kirk strode up to catch Chekov in a one-armed embrace. “Happy half-birthday, Ensign.”

“This is a birthday party?” Chekov looked uncertainly at his captain.

“Since we didn’t get to celebrate your last birthday, you deserved a party,” Kirk explained. “And a half-birthday’s as good as any other stardate.”

Chekov glanced at Sulu, who still stood by the door’s console. “You planned this?”

“Actually,” Sulu said, “it was McCoy’s idea.”

Chekov’s eyes slid to McCoy, still standing next to Uhura behind their sofa. Chekov’s smile bowed into a wide grin. “Of course.”

The assembled crewmen took this as a signal to start talking. Chapel went to the console and set some music playing. Sulu brought out bowls of replicated snacks. Kirk started organizing crewmen to stow away the furniture and clear a dance floor. Uhura gave McCoy’s hand an encouraging squeeze, then walked over to join Spock by the door.

Chekov drifted toward McCoy; the crowd made way for him as if he were royalty. He stopped inches away and looked up at McCoy with that sunlit smile.

“Happy birthday.” McCoy thrust his hand forward, clutching the package.

Chekov glanced at the rumpled, paper-wrapped square. “A present?”

“Yes. It’s your birthday. Half-birthday,” McCoy corrected himself. He kept his eyes on Chekov and refused to speculate on how Chekov might have spent his previous birthday. The only blessing McCoy could think of was that, at the time, Chekov probably hadn’t known what day it was. “Here.” He extended his present again.

Chekov lifted the package from McCoy’s hands. He smoothed the bedraggled wrapping. “You’ve already given me so much.”

“Hardly,” McCoy scoffed. He felt the eyes of other crewmen observing this exchange, and wondered if they were as baffled as he as to why Chekov cared for him. “I think you’re still ahead in the favor department.”

“If you really think so,” Chekov said so softly that McCoy had to strain to hear it over the conversations swirling around them. “I will let you give me another present later tonight,”

McCoy groped for an appropriate response other than “Yes, please,” until Chekov showed mercy and held up his present again.

“Should I open this?”

“Sure.” McCoy tried to sound nonchalant, although his heart was pounding so fast he was amazed he hadn’t set off a medical alert yet.

Chekov neatly broke the adhesive seal on the wrapping and pulled the paper away. He carefully lifted out the delicate square inside. “A data chip? I do not understand. What is on it?”

McCoy noticed Sulu and Uhura casually hovering nearby, and silently blessed them for preventing him from handing this present to Chekov and running away like a schoolgirl. “Here. Take a look.” He pulled out his padd and handed it over. Chekov carefully inserted the chip and watched intently as the images and data inside swirled onto the display.

“They’re star charts,” McCoy said. “For the systems we visited in the past year. I… Sulu told me you liked to name constellations. Spock helped me put together the renderings of the star fields as they appear from the planets’ surfaces. We did one for each place we made landfall. So you could see everything you… Everything you didn’t get to see. “

Chekov stared down at the padd, just looking at the whirling display. He held still so long that McCoy glanced over to Sulu for assurance. Sulu grinned back at him like a big, sappy idiot.

Then McCoy was gripped by the shoulders and spun around to receive a thorough kiss from Chekov.  
\--

Sulu wove his way between three Science ensigns who were tuning Brindmolian lutes, and he made a mental note to ask Chapel to turn up the recorded music. He spotted Kirk holding court among a group of young-looking crewmen; Sulu guessed they must be cadets here for their intern assignments.

“And that,” Kirk said with a grand gesture of his mostly-empty glass, “is why the Delorians never wear plaid!”

The cadets laughed, and Sulu took advantage of the moment to grab Kirk’s elbow and steer him away.

“Don’t you love that story?” Kirk grinned.

Sulu took Kirk’s glass away. “Spock was looking for you. Sir.”

“Business?” Kirk asked. The suddenly tense set of his shoulders betrayed that he wasn’t nearly as inebriated as he was pretending to be.

“Didn’t seem urgent.” Sulu glanced over at Spock, who stood at the far end of the room paying polite attention to the wildly gesticulating Keenser. “But he looked at his padd and almost frowned, so it must be serious.”

“Noted.” Kirk took his drink back from Sulu and threw back on his merry smile. “Thanks for the heads up, Lieutenant.”

Kirk headed off through the crowd, greeting crewmen and patting backs jovially. His movements seemed casual and random, but Sulu recognized that the captain was steering right toward Spock.

Uhura appeared beside Sulu holding a fizzy blue drink. “That doesn’t bode well,” she said.

“Have you heard something?”

“No. But I know Spock. I know he wouldn’t bring up business at a party unless Kirk truly needed to know.” A small smile played over her features. “He says that handling ship business at a social function decreases the positive moral impact of the event.”

“It’s certainly decreasing my morale.”

“Hikaru, don’t.” She laid a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. “Stop worrying about things that haven’t happened. Tonight is for Pavel.”

“I know.” Sulu scanned the crowd for his wayward friend and spotted him on a sofa, leaning in to whisper to a red-faced McCoy. “Looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“Good. I like seeing him this way.”

“What way?”

“Happy.”

Sulu nodded his acknowledgement. The old Chekov—frightened, subservient, and confused in the wake of his captivity—came too easily to mind. Chekov had regained his memories, and with them much of his former self, months ago, but Sulu hadn’t forgotten the ache he’d carried around for the year he’d held himself responsible for Chekov’s loss.

Uhura’s fingers closed around his arm. Her uncanny ability to tell what he was thinking came in hand sometimes. “Come on, Hikaru. Let’s get you another drink.”  
\--

“Next time, lad, you’ll have to see the real transmatter beaming apparatus I’ve put together in my work room. I wasn’t making it up.”

“Of course not, Mister Scott,” Chekov said. “I would like to see what you are working on.”

“Damn dangerous, if you ask me,” McCoy grumbled. “No idea what kind of radiation a contraption like that could be putting out. You’re just asking for your brain to be fried like an egg.”

“To each his own, doctor,” Scotty said good-naturedly, and took another swig of his drink. “You couldn’t make me work with all those chemicals and bacteria cultures you throw around up in that sickbay. Like to give yourself a case of mutant space measles that way.”

“No, I am sure you are both very careful.” Chekov looked McCoy up and down critically. “But perhaps I should check you for spots, just in case.”

“I’ll leave you to it, lad.” Scotty gave Chekov a wink and McCoy a pat on the back. “Good night, doctor.”

Not many crew remained at the party. Sulu had wandered off half an hour ago, Uhura sat talking to Nurse Chapel at a table in the middle of the room, Kirk and Spock stood close together in a corner, and a few other groups of crew were clustered around the room chatting and drinking. Chekov gave Kirk a polite wave and received a distracted smile before Kirk turned back to Spock. Probably he and the first officer had already begun strategizing for their next mission, in the Rubicon Sector.

Chekov extended a hand to help McCoy off the couch, smiling at his muttering of, “making me feel like a decrepit old man.” McCoy followed Chekov out of the rec room into the nearly-deserted corridor. They walked a while in companionable silence. Chekov hadn’t let go of McCoy’s hand.

“Thank you for organizing the party. I did not expect it.” Chekov held up the data chip. “I did not expect this.”

"You like it?” McCoy asked. Beneath his gruff exterior, Chekov could easily see the signs of uncertainty. “I thought it might be--"

Chekov stopped him with a kiss. He made a habit of taking every opportunity to reassure McCoy of how much he meant to him, and this way it was no unpleasant task. When their lips parted, he said, "I love it."

"I'm usually terrible at giving presents, so I wouldn't get used to it," McCoy said with one of his rare, brash smiles that sent Chekov’s stomach twisting in anticipation.

"You are not so terrible as you claim. Come on." Chekov twined his arm around McCoy's, and they walked back to the room that way, content to enjoy each other's presence without speaking in the wake of the party's bustle.

By unspoken agreement, the two of them inhabited McCoy's quarters; as the ship's chief medical officer, he rated a fairly lavish set of rooms by Starfleet standards. Chekov had never occupied the quarters he'd been assigned when he was reinstated as an officer. At the time, Chekov had suggested that he didn't need quarters at all, but McCoy had balked. "You should have some place to go, if you ever want to," McCoy had said. "I don't want you to ever feel trapped." Another piece to add to the growing pile of evidence that McCoy still felt the need to treat Chekov delicately.

It wasn't that Chekov didn't appreciate McCoy's desire to protect him, but he was beginning to suspect that McCoy would never feel confident enough in Chekov's recovery to treat him as a full partner, capable of making his own decisions and looking out for his own well-being.

When they reached their destination, Chekov preceded McCoy inside. He set his data chip gently on the desk. He didn't need to turn around to know that McCoy was watching him. He drew his uniform shirt up over his head and tossed it into a corner, leaving his black undershirt for now: he liked the way it looked when it clung to him, outlining the muscles he'd regained in the past months. Next he bent over at the waist to pull off first one boot, then the other. Behind him, he heard McCoy hum appreciatively. He grinned at the special thrill of having found another way to drive his typically closed-off lover to lose himself in a moment of pleasure. McCoy deserved more relaxation in his life, and after he'd gone to such trouble to organize a celebration tonight, Chekov wanted to give McCoy something special in return.

Chekov turned around and languidly stripped off his remaining shirt. This time he got the pleasure of seeing McCoy's eyes slide over his body hungrily. Chekov closed the space between them with a step that was half-leap, and he pinned McCoy against the doorway with a kiss. McCoy's held on tightly to him, his large hands spanning Chekov's ribcage.

"I have been waiting for this all night," Chekov whispered into McCoy's mouth. "But I thought the others would gossip too much if I dragged you off to a closet somewhere to have my way with you."

"They would have gotten over it," McCoy said, and Chekov filed that unexpected response away gleefully. "Still, I'm glad we stayed. I like watching you with your friends, too. I like that they know how amazing you are."

"And you like knowing that I'm yours."

"Hell, I know they all wonder why exactly you settle for me, anyway."

"No,” Chekov said with a gentle nip at McCoy’s mouth. “I think probably when they get that faraway look in their eyes, they are wondering what we look like in bed together, and then possibly drooling a little."

"Pavel." McCoy’s looked like he might be about to drool, himself.

"Let's not argue about who is luckier, yes?"

"Alright."

"I knew I could get you to see sense. You really can be a very reasonable man, when you are in the right mood." Chekov dropped gracefully to his knees: a skill he could thank his slave training for. He braced his hands on McCoy's waist and leaned in to slide his face against the prominent bulge at the front of McCoy's uniform trousers. "And I think perhaps you are in the right mood."

"Well for the love of God, you’re talking about dragging me off to a closet, how the hell--ohhh." McCoy's words dissolved into an incoherent moan as Chekov rubbed his cheek against McCoy's clothed erection.

"What were you saying?" Chekov asked. He casually set about unfastening McCoy's pants and sliding them down his legs. "You were objecting to the way I talk, perhaps?"

"No, no," McCoy said quickly. He reached down to tug his fingers through Chekov's curls, and his fond smile said he knew exactly what Chekov was up to, and didn't mind letting him have his way. "By all means, continue."

"Thank you," Chekov said primly. He finished stripping McCoy from the waist down efficiently, while McCoy obligingly removed his shirts. Then he stood patiently while Chekov began to tease him with his mouth: feather-light licks all up and down the length, the barest swirl of his tongue around the head, a press of lips around the base with just a hint of teeth.

Chekov felt McCoy's fingers tighten in his hair, and looked up to see the visible effort McCoy made to relax, not to demand more. Chekov exhaled gently before sucking in just the tip of McCoy's weighty cock. He tongued the slit, and pressed his lips tight to make a seal, but went no further. McCoy stared resolutely at the ceiling, his stubbled jaw clenched tightly. Chekov wondered what obscure medical facts he might be reciting to keep himself under control.

Getting McCoy to make a move might be more difficult than he'd anticipated. He'd have to try something more direct. He gave McCoy's cock one last lick and let it slide from his mouth. He wrapped a hand around it instead, and pumped the spit-slick length gently as McCoy looked down to see what he was up to.

“You said you would give me another present,” Chekov said.

“Did you have something in mind?” McCoy said. He was remarkably articulate for a man being so mercilessly teased.

“Yes.” He used his grip on McCoy's waist to pull himself up to standing; he knew McCoy might not take this request well if Chekov was on his knees. So he leaned his weight against McCoy and adjusted his thigh to press tantalizingly against McCoy's erection. “I want you to be rough with me.”

McCoy blinked at him. “Be rough?”

“You are always so gentle and patient, and I like that, too. But I know the strength in you; I know you hold back.”

“It’s not a hardship.” Now McCoy looked suspicious.

“I will not break," Chekov said. He pressed his thigh harder between McCoy's legs, and was rewarded with an involuntary buck of McCoy's hips. "In fact, I seem to recall receiving a higher score on my combat proficiency check-up than a certain chief medical officer.”

“Are you saying you could put me in my place?” McCoy still looked wary, but amusement warred with caution in his expression.

“Oh most certainly, if I desired,” Chekov said with a grin.

“Oh certainly.” McCoy smirked. “If you _desired_.”

“Right now my desires are elsewhere. Len…” He sank back to his knees, slowly. “Please.”

McCoy paled, and he quickly closed his eyes. “I don’t know that’s a good idea.” Chekov could imagine what he was seeing: Pasha, the well-trained slave, kneeling and cowering in abject fear.

"Listen." From where he knelt, Chekov grabbed McCoy's wrists and pinned them against the wall. "I will not let the past haunt us, not in this. Not here. If any other lover asked you to try this, would you?"

"I don't have any other lover," McCoy muttered, but his hands unclenched from fists, and Chekov let him go. "What do you want me to do?"

"Only treat me like I am not delicate. If something is happening I do not like, I will say stop."

"How do I know what you'll like?"

"Len, please. What I like is to give you pleasure. For you to take your pleasure with me, understand? I want to fulfill your need this way. And this has nothing to do with what happened to me. I liked this before I was taken."

That seemed to decide McCoy. He looked pale, but he nodded."If anything hurts, or if you feel afraid, you'll say stop."

"Yes."

"Swear it."

"I swear it."

"Okay."

Chekov darted forward to swipe his tongue over McCoy's cock again, too light to be satisfying. This time, now that he knew what Chekov was playing at, McCoy took the hint. He tangled one hand in Chekov's hair and guided his mouth gently but firmly onto McCoy's cock. The thrill of it, of McCoy controlling him, immediately left Chekov light-headed as all his blood-flow re-routed to his groin.

"Is this what you want?" McCoy's voice sounded rough, and deeper than usual.

Chekov sucked enthusiastically to reassure McCoy that yes, this was _exactly_ what he wanted. After a moment, McCoy pulled Chekov back, then forward again, setting up an easy rhythm. Chekov relaxed into the feel of McCoy's cock sliding in and out of his mouth. He was careful to keep his teeth covered, and he used his tongue generously on every stroke. His hands gripped the back of McCoy's thighs, squeezing in gentle encouragement.

"That's it, darlin'," McCoy whispered. His accent crept into his voice more when he was aroused, and Chekov found he liked the warm sound of it as a counterpoint to the strong grip McCoy held. McCoy's other hand found Chekov's shoulder and held on tight as he fucked Chekov's mouth faster. The first slam of McCoy's cock against the back of his throat knocked loose a delighted moan from Chekov.

McCoy froze immediately, and looked down to meet Chekov's eyes. There was that doubt again: his certainty of Chekov's frailty. Chekov merely pushed his mouth back down the length of McCoy's cock, and set his own pace until McCoy regained his grip and began guiding him again. They weren't going much faster or harder than they had in the past, but McCoy was actually taking the lead for once, which made all the difference to Chekov. He dropped one hand from his grip on McCoy to press against the front of his pants, which he wished he'd thought to take off earlier.

"Wait." McCoy tightened his grip on Chekov, and pulled him off entirely. "Not yet." He closed his eyes tight and squeezed a hand around his own cock, staving off his orgasm. Any doubts Chekov had had about whether McCoy would enjoy playing this way evaporated as he watched McCoy fought off the release that threatened to overwhelm him after only a few minutes.

When McCoy had himself more under control, he looked down thoughtfully at Chekov. He seemed to have realized that he couldn't hide the effect Chekov's request was having on him, and he might as well concede. "Go to the bed," he rasped.

Chekov scrambled to the bed, arranged himself on all fours, and glanced back over his shoulder at McCoy.

"You're so beautiful." McCoy approached the side of the bed and ran a hand reverently over Chekov, down his spine, then cupping his ass. "So beautiful, and too damn clever by half." He ran his hand back up Chekov's right side, where he knew he was ticklish. Chekov shivered, but managed to remain otherwise still. "Stay here."

McCoy walked away from the bed, and Chekov could hear him moving around the room out of his line of sight. Chekov closed his eyes and relaxed, letting himself drift deeper into the mindset of obedience. McCoy returned almost immediately. He climbed onto the bed and leaned over Chekov's back. Chekov pressed back against him, taking comfort in his warm skin against the chill recycled air of the room.

"You've been waiting so patiently, I think you deserve a reward," McCoy said. He quickly unbuttoned Chekov's pants, and pulled them down along with his briefs, finally freeing Chekov's erection to hang heavy between his legs. McCoy ignored that for now, and instead ran a slick finger along the cleft of Chekov's ass. "Is there something you want?"

"Please." The word dropped easily from his lips, and sent his cock throbbing. "Please, Len. Fuck me."

"Hm." McCoy slid a single finger inside Chekov, gently and oh-so-slowly. "I could do that. Fuck you how?"

"Hard." Chekov tried to push back against McCoy's hand, to take more, but a firm hand at the small of his back stopped him.

"Patience," McCoy said. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, and maybe you'll get it."

"Please." Chekov licked his lips; his mouth was suddenly very dry. This kind of submission warmed him, though right now he felt that the heady abandon of it might pose a danger. He couldn't let himself slip under entirely, not if he wanted to be aware enough to re-assure McCoy that he was enjoying himself. "I want you to fuck me hard and rough. I want you to pound into me until all I can think of is you. I want to feel you all day tomorrow, every time I move, every step reminding me I am yours. I want to feel your mark on me. Please..." He almost said sir, but he stopped himself in time. "Please, Len."

"Shh." McCoy brushed a hand down his back. "Okay." He added another finger, and scissored them inside Chekov easily. The prep was probably unnecessary; Chekov felt relaxed enough to take McCoy immediately if not sooner, but he'd submit to anything that would make McCoy more comfortable. McCoy pulled out his fingers. Chekov heard the wet sound of lube against skin, and then McCoy's cock pressed against his entrance.

"Please," Chekov whispered.

McCoy pushed into him in one long thrust: not too fast, but not the slow, leisurely pace he usually set, either. When he was seated all the way inside Chekov, he wrapped his hands around Chekov's hips and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Please," Chekov breathed again.

McCoy pulled out almost all the way, then slammed into Chekov, knocking the breath out of him. From there, Chekov had to struggled to get the air back, because McCoy pounded into him mercilessly, pulling Chekov back onto his cock and slamming in to the hilt on every thrust. Chekov's cock bounced, throbbing and on the edge of release just from this treatment, from hearing McCoy's labored breathing and half-strangled curses.

McCoy rode him faster, and Chekov barely managed the brainpower to push back against McCoy to meet his rhythm. More than the physical sensation, the demonstration of McCoy’s strength fueled the flames of Chekov’s arousal. He’d known McCoy had been holding back before, but experiencing a taste of that strength while knowing with a bone-deep certainty that McCoy would never, ever hurt him—that allowed Chekov a kind of freedom he’d been missing.

Chekov dropped his chest closer to the mattress, and suddenly every muscle clenched tight when the angle changed, and McCoy's cock slid against a place that sent electricity sparking through Chekov's every nerve.

Chekov barely had time to wrap his hand around his cock before his hips bucked forward and he spilled his release against the sheets. Behind him, McCoy gave a strangled moan. He picked up his pace, fucking Chekov hard through the aftershocks, until his hands gripped Chekov's hips with bruising force, pulling him back one more time as McCoy slammed into him, reaching a climax of his own.

"Damn it..." McCoy slumped over Chekov while he regained his breath. He pulled out gingerly, and Chekov managed to repress a wince. The mattress shifted as McCoy stood, but dipped again immediately as he returned with a warm wet cloth to clean Chekov up.

Chekov, for his part, submitted to McCoy's ministrations patiently, until the silence started to worry him. He rolled over on his back to see McCoy frowning down at his hands. He glanced over at Chekov, searching his face carefully. "Are you alright?"

"I am better than alright," Chekov said with a sleepy smile. "I have just received two very excellent birthday gifts, and am feeling myself to be a very lucky man."

McCoy's wariness didn't go away. "Did I hurt you?"

Chekov shook his head. "I will be sore tomorrow, but I want to be." He grabbed McCoy's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I will be sitting on the bridge, thinking of how good it felt to have you fuck me without holding back, and all day Kirk will wonder why I am blushing."

"Pavel, you are out to kill me." But the haunted look had fled, replaced by one of cautious contentment. McCoy lay down next to Chekov. He wrapped an arm protectively over him and pressed a kiss to the nape of Chekov's neck. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you." Chekov shifted back to press his back to McCoy's chest, enjoying his heat. Chekov was still floating on the endorphin high of his release, but he couldn't help analyzing McCoy's response to the night's events. As long as McCoy still feared hurting him, he wouldn't be able to enjoy their relationship as much as he should. Chekov would just have to work to gain his trust, and show McCoy that he was stable enough to play this way. They had time; he refused to let his past rob them of any pleasure they could explore together. With that admirable goal in mind, Chekov surrendered to sleep.  
\--

McCoy awoke to Chekov tracing feather-light paths along his back.

“Gmph?” he said.

“Good morning,” Chekov said. He drew his had away, looking a little guilty. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“S’alright,” McCoy said, and, for all that he would normally wish death on anyone who interrupted his sleep, he meant it. There was nothing he’d rather wake up to than the sight of a contented, naked Chekov in his bed.

“You can go back to sleep,” Chekov whispered. “It is early yet.”

“So why are you up?” McCoy asked. The nightmares Chekov had suffered for months had become less and less frequent. There hadn’t been any in eighty-two days. Not that McCoy had counted. But he would have noticed if Pavel had had one of those. In fact, he’d half-expected last night’s exertions to have triggered something of the kind.

“My thoughts woke me up,” Chekov said, as if that explained something. He returned to trailing a finger over McCoy’s back. “I said last night I’d check you for spots, but I got distracted. I like these little marks on your skin.”

“Freckles?”

“Like constellations,” Chekov said. “I like knowing them.”

“You probably know them better than I do.” McCoy tried to crane his neck over his shoulder to see what Chekov did, but gave up at the sound of a popping joint. “I don’t spend a lot of time looking at my back.”

“Hm.” Chekov traced a long line from McCoy’s shoulder to just above his hip on the opposite side, and McCoy found himself trying to decipher the pattern being created. “I had forgotten about naming constellations, you know.”

McCoy turned over. He’d known the gift might bring up feelings of regret. Perhaps it had been a mistake. “Should I not have--?”

“No,” Chekov said quickly. “The present was perfect. You have given me back more than this, you know.” Chekov leaned over to kiss him. “And for the record, I contend that you are still ahead in being owed favors. You are making it difficult to keep up.”

McCoy gave an incredulous, “Hmph. As if you’d have any trouble keeping up with a foolish old man.”

“Not so foolish. And not so old, either. At least, not so old to want sleep more than me.”

“No,” McCoy agreed. “Certainly not that old.”

Then he relaxed and surrendered to the pleasures of a gentle morning session of love-making. Chekov’s hands played over him, warming and waking him, until at last Chekov straddled him and rode him to completion. With the enviable energy of youth, Chekov pressed a kiss to McCoy’s temple before bounding off for his turn in the shower.

McCoy didn’t both looking at the chrono, but allowed himself to drift in a peaceful half-sleep. He was glad to see Chekov so cheerful this morning; despite all Chekov’s assurances, he wasn’t sure everything had been all right last night. In retrospect, he wished he’d been able to retain a little more control, but Chekov stripped his resolve away like no one else, until he couldn’t help but give in to desires he probably shouldn’t be indulging. Not with Chekov. Not when his actions might trigger a bad memory and make Chekov re-live even a moment of the hell he’d endured as a slave. McCoy didn’t think he could live with himself if he was the cause of the kind of mindless panic he’d seen Pasha exhibit back on Bussar when faced with his master’s disapproval.

Soon enough Chekov came out, scrubbed clean and effortlessly handsome. He gave McCoy a kiss on the cheek before going to dig out a clean uniform. With a reluctant sigh, McCoy dragged himself into the bathroom to get ready for the day. When he emerged, Chekov stood in the center of the room, with his unbuttoned pants hanging loosely on his hips, staring down at the padd in his hands.

“What?” McCoy asked as he toweled his hair dry. “Are we late for our shift?”

“No.” Chekov’s voice seemed distant, as if it came from the bottom of an old well. “No, we are to attend a briefing at eleven hundred hours.”

“Plenty of time, then.”

“The briefing…”

“What?” McCoy asked with mounting concern.

Chekov couldn’t get out any more, so McCoy snatched up his own padd from his desk and thumbed through to the message about the meeting. His eyes caught on the subject line. “Commander Trenach.”

Chekov had already thrown on his shirt and was quickly pulling on his boots.

“Pavel, what is this about?”

“I do not know.” He strode over to McCoy, held very still for a moment, then dove in for a quick, hard kiss before darting out the door.

“Pavel, wait!” McCoy scrambled to pull on a pair of pants before he followed Chekov into the corridor, but Chekov had already disappeared into the stream of crewmen on their way to alpha shift.  
\--

Kirk evidently hadn’t waited for McCoy’s arrival to start the briefing. Not that McCoy had deliberately wandered in late to save himself suffering through the re-introduction of Commander Trenach. He’d just gotten tied up in sickbay, that was all.

Only Kirk gave McCoy a second glance as he slipped into the briefing room. Trenach was already in mid-rant. McCoy certainly hadn’t missed his grating prattle. Sulu looked pained, Scotty concerned, Spock intent, Uhura coolly attentive, and Chekov strangely blank.

“And thanks to those efforts, we’ve tracked the organization to another base of operations on Ranii. Some of the players are the same: same traders and suppliers who relocated there. Others have been there for years. Our intelligence suggests they’re part of the same branch.”

For some reason, most of the eyes in the room slid to Chekov, who nodded. “The syndicate maintains its own rules and traditions. During my time in captivity, we moved between many planetary systems. The different location would not affect their expectations of behavior,” Chekov said carefully. “My experience should still be relevant.”

While McCoy tried to interpret that little remark, Trenach went on. “The target is the main slave market in Rechii, the capital city. Their annual festival is coming up, and the syndicate will be sending a representative to receive tribute. We need to gather information about the major players, and if possible plant tracking devices on their ships. If we can track the syndicate’s representative back to their home base, so much the better. ”

“The highest ranked trading officials socialize regularly,” Chekov said. “With careful planning, it may be possible to earn an invitation to such a function.”

“What did I miss?” McCoy leaned over and muttered to Sulu.

Sulu turned to him with an expression of smoldering resentment. “Pavel volunteered to go undercover as a slave,” he whispered.

“What?” He realized he’d shouted when everyone in the room turned to look at him.

“Something wrong, doctor?” Trenach asked mildly.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” McCoy said through clenched teeth. “If I’d come a bit earlier my medical expertise might have been useful in preventing everyone from losing their damn minds.”

From Sulu’s other side, Scotty piped up, “What did you say to set the man off?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true,” Sulu grumbled.

“Bones, calm down,” Kirk said. “We’re just discussing scenarios at this point. Since he has firsthand knowledge about the slave trade, Chekov suggested that posing as--”

“And what in the whole wide universe would make you think _anyone_ going undercover with these barbarians is a good idea, let alone Chekov?”

“ _Chekov_ is right here, Doctor,” Chekov said acidly. “And he is going undercover because he is the only one who has a chance of plausibly passing as a trained slave. And he has suggested this plan because he believes it is the best chance for breaking this trade ring.”

“Well I _believe_ this is the damn definition of medically unadvised.”

“I thought you had cleared Ensign Chekov for duty,” Trenach broke in.

“Yes,but--”

“And I was on four weeks of light duty before that,” Chekov snapped.

“Yes, but--”

“Either I am fit to do my duty or I am not. Are you suggesting I have not made a full recovery, Doctor McCoy?”

McCoy knew from the cold anger in Chekov’s eyes that if he answered incorrectly, Chekov might never speak to him again. He chose his words carefully. “Physically, you’re fine, but I doubt the wisdom of anyone throwing himself back into a potentially triggering situation.”

“If anyone else had the knowledge I do, I would not be needed for this mission.”

“This is a unique opportunity that may never come again,” Trenach said. “Only Ensign Chekov has a chance of pulling this off.”

“I am thankful for the chance to do something to help stop those who imprisoned me. Who knows how many others they might hurt?”

“Chekov,” Kirk said warningly. “If you don’t want to do this, we’ll find another way.”

“But of all we have discussed, this scenario has the highest probability of success, is that correct, Mister Spock?”

“That is correct,” Spock said slowly. Even the Vulcan’s natural calm seemed ruffled by the tension in the room.

“You’re really going down there to pose as a slave.” McCoy looked slowly around the room, meeting several uncertain expressions. “No one seems to think this is the most terrible idea since that posing as princesses scheme of Jim’s.”

“That turned out okay in the end,” Kirk piped up.

“Fine. Worse than princesses.”

“He won’t be alone, Doctor,” Trenach said, and turned to Chekov. “Ensign, there is the matter of who should accompany you.”

Chekov glanced over at McCoy, and for the first time, he looked unsure. “I would like to propose that Doctor McCoy join the mission. He was seen on Bussar as an owner, and he has had direct exposure to the slave culture.”

“Commander Spock is the logical choice,” Trenach countered. “His touch telepathy would allow you to communicate silently.”

“I also have some natural defenses against interference from the Usites,” Spock put in. “It would be more difficult for them to control my mind or alter my memories should they resort to using their telepathy against us.”

“The presence of a Vulcan might be a wee bit suspicious, Spock,” Kirk pointed out. “Plus, Intah’s men saw both of us. If we were recognized, Chekov’s cover would be blown. What about Sulu?”

“Same problem as before,” Uhura said. “The Usite syndicate has speciesest tendencies. Lieutenant Sulu, you clearly look like a Terran, and there just aren’t any Terran owners.”

“Ridiculous,” Sulu muttered.

“This mission does hold some risk of injury,” Chekov said. “Doctor McCoy would be able to deal with such an emergency should it arise.”

“Kid makes a good point, Bones,” Kirk said. All eyes in the room slid to McCoy.

“Doctor McCoy?” Spock prompted.

“I don’t want any part of this.” McCoy turned his back and walked out of the briefing.  
\--

McCoy had expected Kirk to come yell at him. Locked in his office at the back of sickbay, he’d sat with a full bottle of bourbon and an empty glass, rehearsing what he would say to convince Kirk to call off this impending disaster. But Kirk didn’t burst into the room swearing. Instead, an hour after McCoy’s dramatic exit, the office door chime rang, clean and polite.

“Who is it?”

“Commander Spock.”

“This had better be a medical emergency.” McCoy hit the command to open the door, and Spock stepped in with his hands neatly clasped behind his back. “I don’t see blood.”

“I am not injured. I’ve come to discuss the upcoming mission to Ranii.”

“You all seemed to be making enough of a mess on your own. In my medical opinion, you’re a bunch of damn fools.”

“I urge you to reconsider your refusal to volunteer for this mission.”

“I urge you to look up the definition of volunteer. Kirk can’t assign me to an undercover mission. I’m the ship’s chief medical officer. I’m totally unqualified to be--”

“No, Jim cannot give you this assignment. If you are to participate, you must volunteer.”

“I’m not going to volunteer. If Jim wants to defend his hare-brained scheme, why isn’t he down here?”

“He suggested giving you time to ‘cool off.’”

“Maybe you should listen to him once in a while. They say he’s a genius.”

“Yes. I believe I can make you see reason in this matter.”

“’S that so?”

“Yes. If you do not volunteer, this assignment will be given to Mr. Trenach.”

McCoy’s mouth hung slack and half-open. “I…”

“Having pursued the trading ring for more than a year, he is relatively familiar with their methods,” Spock pointed out. “Lacking a candidate with first-hand experience in the slave culture, the captain will have to alternative but to select Mister Trenach to accompany Mister Chekov.”

McCoy managed to get his voice working again. “Does Pavel know this?”

“It was discussed at the briefing.”

“Spock, you saw his memories. You saw what they did to him.” McCoy closed his eyes to fend off the images that accompanied those memories: nightmarish recollections of Chekov’s captivity. Spock had to remember, from his mind-meld with Chekov, the power of those hurts. “How can you condone sending him back to that?”

“You talk as if he is going back into slavery, doctor. He is not.”

“You can’t tell me that this is a simple undercover mission. It’s a damn sight more difficult than that.”

“I do not deny that certain personal feelings may complicate this mission. However, Mister Chekov seems determined to proceed.”

“Spock, you saw. You _saw_.” Outrage choked McCoy’s words, and he had to force himself to continue. “If something goes wrong on this mission, he could go through that again. Are you willing to let that happen?”

Spock pressed his lips together slightly in the Vulcan equivalent of a deep scowl. “The decision is not mine. Mister Chekov makes his own choices.”

“Get out of here,” McCoy snapped. He dropped into his desk chair, feeling wrung out as if with fatigue. When Spock didn’t move, McCoy turned a desperate look on him. “Please.”  
\--

Chekov kept his eyes firmly on his console. He could feel the steady weight of Sulu’s gaze on him, but he refused to acknowledge it. The whole shift, since the morning’s disastrous briefing, had passed this way: in a precarious dance of avoiding the disapproving looks of Sulu and Uhura.

“Got those course plans, Ensign?” Kirk appeared beside Chekov and dropped a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to be touching Chekov more than usual today: reassuring pats on the back, a playful ruffling of his hair. Apparently Kirk was trying to diffuse the tension on the bridge by acting especially chipper. Chekov thought Kirk’s tactic was unlikely to make much of a difference to Sulu.

McKenna came in to relieve Sulu ten minutes early. Sulu went about briefing him with his usual efficiency. When Spock gave him the clear to leave his station, Sulu went immediately to Uhura’s station. The two spoke together in low tones; Chekov chose to ignore them.

Lieutenant Kelso arrived three minutes later. Chekov gratefully relinquished his post with all possible haste and all but sprinted to the turbolift. Too late; Sulu and Uhura caught up with him at the door and crowded into the lift, bracketing him as if he might try to bolt. Silence held between them until the door slid closed.

“We have to talk,” Sulu said.

“You cannot convince me to abandon this mission,” Chekov snapped. He’d been preparing for this fight all day. He’d mapped out all the arguments—logical and otherwise—that would force his friends to understand why he needed this mission. He had even prepared himself for the possibility that they would not understand and that he would have to undertake his task without this friends’ support or approval. “My mind is made up.”

“We know,” Uhura said.

Chekov opened his mouth to retort; her words took several seconds to penetrate the fortifications of his planned defense. “You will not attempt to dissuade me?”

“As if we could,” Sulu scoffed. “You’re more stubborn than a Russian winter. Or so your mother once told me.”

Chekov managed a weak smile at that, but he couldn’t relax. “Then what is it you want to discuss?”

“Come have dinner with us,” Uhura said.

When Chekov continued to look warily at them, Sulu added, “We have a proposition.”

Looking from one to the other’s expression, Chekov couldn’t hope to guess their intention. “Very well. Dinner.”  
\--

Sulu led the way to the mess. He and Uhura hadn’t had much chance to plan their strategy, but Sulu imagined that Chekov wouldn’t be eager to start a screaming fight in front of the rest of the crew, so this venue seemed the best choice.

The room swarmed with crew members coming off alpha shift. The buzz of a hundred conversations would cover any secrets they didn’t want to become ship-wide gossip.

They made their selections in silence and brought their trays to a table in the far corner of the mess. Sulu and Uhura sat on one side of the table. Chekov set his tray down across from them and glanced around the mess as if checking for listeners.

Uhura tucked into her salad with quick, efficient bites. She projected the very picture of confidence, and Sulu wished he could pretend to be half as calm. Chekov sat with his arms folded across his chest, watching Sulu and Uhura suspiciously. He obviously had no intention of eating just yet. Sulu pushed his baked potato listlessly around his plate, mostly to give the impression that Chekov’s silence didn’t bother him.

At last, Uhura put down her fork, glanced reproachfully at their untouched food, and leaned back in her chair. “When are they deciding who’ll go on the mission with you?” she asked Chekov. Trust Uhura, as always, to get right to the point.

“It seems to be decided already,” Chekov said stiffly. “There is no viable volunteer other than Commander Trenach. We are to begin training for the mission in two days’ time.”

“Hm.” Uhura raised an eyebrow in an eerie echo of a typical Spock expression. “Is Trenach trained in hand-to-hand combat?”

“No. Not more than any officer.” Chekov said slowly, as if trying to guess the reason for this line of questioning. Then, more quickly, “But neither is the doctor.”

“The doctor,” Uhura repeated.

Chekov pursed his lips, as if he was sorry he’d brought up McCoy. He stabbed a fork angrily into one of the pelmeni in the bowl before him. “Many officers are not trained in advanced hand-to-hand combat. It is not often necessary.”

“We had an idea.” Sulu hadn’t meant to blurt the matter out so quickly, but he needed to stop Chekov’s busy brain from speculating worst-case scenarios on why they would want to speak to him.

“You cannot talk me out of going,” Chekov said. He looked tense, as if he might flee the room should Sulu try.

“We know, Pavel.” Uhura’s voice remained blessedly calm. “I’ve read everything I could find about the traditions of the syndicate’s slave culture. Some of the firsthand accounts seem to give conflicting information. I was hoping you could clear up a question I have.”

“Perhaps,” he said warily.

“One account talks of a class of slaves who are allowed to break certain taboos: making eye contact, speaking to free men, even carrying weapons. It sounded like they were some sort of religious order.”

“This is from the report of Vhatus Rho, from his encounter on Fenton Gamma?” Chekov asked.

“Yes. But his brother’s account speaks of an attempted slave abduction, in which the attack was foiled by a fellow slave, who was carrying a weapon. He didn’t mention any relation to the phenomenon his brother described, but it seemed strange.” Uhura gave a credible performance of confusion. Sulu would bet she _did_ genuinely want to know more about this aspect of the syndicate’s culture, but she also played wisely on her knowledge of Chekov; explaining a complicated phenomenon would put him at ease and give him something to focus on other than his suspicions of Uhura and Sulu’s motives. “I wondered, is it common for slaves to conceal weapons?”

“No. For such a thing to be discovered would mean death.”

“So only slaves that are members of this religious order are allowed to go armed.”

“It is not exactly a religious order,” Chekov said slowly. “More like a caste. But yes, they have special privileges.”

“And they’d use these special privileges to defend fellow slaves?” Uhura asked.

“No, not quite. You see, he only has these privileges for that reason,” Chekov shook his head slightly, unsatisfied, and rephrased his explanation. “His function is to protect his charge.”

“You said they’re trained to defend. Like bodyguards?”

“Yes. Owners buy them to protect expensive slaves.” Chekov’s expression turned sour. “The word they used on Bussar meant the same as watch dog.”

“Could one carry a phaser?”

“No. No range weapons are permitted. He is only allowed a hand weapon, only to defend.”

This information was more helpful than Sulu had dared to hope. Sulu glanced at Uhura, who gave a small nod.

Chekov looked at Uhura, then at Sulu, with a frown etched into his face. “Why are you asking me this?”

“This is the idea we wanted to talk to you about.”

“You want me to pose as one of these bodyguard slaves? How would that help? I am not even trained in--” Chekov stopped mid-sentence, and Sulu could see the pieces of the puzzle clicking together behind his eyes as he fixed his gaze on Sulu. “You. You want to pose as one of these slaves.”

“You can’t do this alone,” Sulu said. He was proud of the way his voice remained steady. “If there’s a culturally appropriate way to provide you with a bodyguard, you’d be a fool to turn one down.”

“You do not have the knowledge of the culture.”

“I’ll learn.”

“You could be in danger.”

“Less than you will. I am not losing you again.”

“Hikaru,” Chekov said softly. “You do not want to do this. These slaves have special privileges, yes, but they are still slaves.”

“If you’re willing to take this on, you can’t object to my volunteering.”

“I… You are very clever ambushers, you two.” He nodded, once. “Thank you.”

Sulu grinned his victory to Uhura, but worry gnawed at the edges of his triumph. He’d expected Chekov to argue more. If he’d given in so easily, he must be more worried about this mission than even Sulu had guessed.  
\--

McCoy hesitated at the door to his quarters. He’d thought about sleeping in his office, but when he'd started to linger after his shift Chapel had given him such a dark look that he didn’t dare stay in sickbay. He doubted that Chekov would be anywhere but here, waiting for him. Chekov certainly didn’t lack for courage when it came to confronting a problem. McCoy, on the other hand, found himself torn between wanting to comfort Chekov in the face of the resurgence of all the old memories, and wanting to shake some sense into him at suggesting this fool-hearty plan. He couldn't do either standing in the hallway.

With a deep breath and a silent plea for bourbon, he went inside.

Somehow he'd expected Chekov to be standing in the center of the room, tapping his foot and waiting to confront McCoy. Instead, he was settled on the sofa, as usual, with bare feet tucked up under him, still in uniform. He intently studied the padd in his hand, and worried the end of the stylus in his mouth. He glanced up when the door swished open, smiled at McCoy, and turned his attention right back to his padd.

He stayed there, absorbed in his own little world, while McCoy went to the desk to drop off the stack of data chips he'd brought back: paperwork he'd do if Chekov wasn't speaking to him. From the calm, domestic scene that had greeted him, McCoy had no way of knowing where he stood with Chekov. If his stomach acid wasn't trying to bore a hole through his gut, he'd have sworn this was a normal evening.

"Have you eaten?" Chekov looked up from his padd to nod toward some dishes on the table. "I was hungry, so I replicated a snack earlier. I was not sure what time you would return. If you would return." He shook his head quickly. "Would you like something?"

McCoy turned toward Chekov, who looked infuriatingly calm, as if all was well in the world. Somehow the calmness galled him. “Aren’t you going to apologize?” he blurted.

Chekov blinked; he probably hadn't expected McCoy to start a confrontation for once. He recovered quickly enough; he was a genius, after all. “For doing my duty?" He swung his feet off the couch and planted them firmly on the floor, as if readying to evade an attacker. "Len, I am sorry I did not get to talk to you before I decided, but I am not sorry to be doing what I am doing. You must see that there is no one else for this mission. “

"There's another way. There has to be,” McCoy snapped. “Don't they have intelligence operatives who train for this sort of thing?"

"None that have first-hand experience with this syndicate."

"What about civilians? Aren't there civilian experts? I refuse to believe you're the only slave who's ever escaped or been freed."

"You think a civilian is more likely to succeed than I am?" Chekov asked with a glint of challenge in his eye.

"No. That's not what I meant."

"I am a Starfleet officer. You yourself declared me fit for duty. Why are you so opposed?"

"I understand trauma victims.” McCoy had no wish to hurt Chekov, but he had to make him understand the very real risks he was running off to face. “Security officers injured on an away mission who freeze up the next time they're in a firefight. Pilots who survive crashes who lose their lunch at the first sign of turbulence. How can you know you won't do the same when you're kneeling on a filthy floor somewhere letting a trader paw you over?"

"You cannot stop me from going."

"I know, damnit!" McCoy shouted. That admission sapped all the fight from him; he slumped into the nearest chair. "I know. I can't stop you. I can't even help you. The odds were minuscule the last time around; I could so easily have gone to my hotel instead of to that auction, or we could have been delayed by a day and missed the auction altogether, or someone could have figured out I was from Starfleet and killed us both. We were damned lucky to get you back last time. I'm so grateful for that... Throwing yourself right back into danger seems like the worst kind of tempting fate."

"Len." Chekov rose from the couch and approached him slowly, as if afraid of startling him. "I am not doing this to hurt you." He climbed into the chair, draped himself over McCoy and embraced him. McCoy felt his anger draining away with every second Chekov held him. "Would it help," he asked in a whisper, "if I admitted I am afraid?"

"No." McCoy wrapped his arms around Chekov. "Not in the least. No one should have to face this. Jim should know better."

"The captain did not ask me to do this." Chekov pulled away far enough to look McCoy in the eye. "It is my decision. I am strong enough for this, Len."

For once, McCoy saw no trace of the shy, bewildered creature who'd come back to the Enterprise months ago. This Chekov, determined and strong, had emerged instead: a fusion of the light-hearted genius and the traumatized slave. "My head knows that," McCoy muttered. "I don’t want you in danger. Not this kind of danger, anyway.”

“Do you want what happened to me to happen to thousands more? Helpless people who have no miraculous Starfleet rescue waiting for them?”

"Of course not."

"Then you know why I must go."

"I just wish I could help." As soon as the words left McCoy's mouth, he knew he shouldn't have said them. How could he convince Chekov that his reluctance wasn't cowardice? McCoy would only be a liability on a mission like this; he had no head for strategy, no talent for subterfuge, and certainly no tolerance for seeing Chekov in danger. If there was a worse idea than sending Chekov on his mission in the first place, McCoy was convinced that his tagging along was it.

"Well." Chekov slid off his lap gracefully. "As long as we are through fighting about this, I will be content."

McCoy nodded mutely, and allowed Chekov to draw him out of his chair and lead him to the bed.

Their lovemaking that night was quiet and somehow desperate, and McCoy felt like they were trapped together behind enemy lines, knowing this might be the last time.  



	2. Chapter 2

Sulu pulled on his uniform shirt, then wondered if that was a stupid thing to wear to his first session of undercover training. He pulled it off, looked over his assortment of battered workout clothes, thought about Trenach’s expression if he showed up in one of those, and pulled his uniform shirt back on.

The chime on his door interrupted his dawdling.

“Come!”

“Good morning.” Chekov stepped inside and let the door slide closed behind him. He looked questioningly at the evidence of a hectic morning. “I came by the check on you.”

“Good. We can walk down there together. The last thing I want to do is make small talk with Trenach.”

“You know you do not have to do this. If you are having second thoughts--”

“You can’t talk me out of it,” Sulu said immediately. “If I promise I won’t try to talk you out of this mission, will you promise you won’t try to talk me out if it?”

“Yes,” Chekov said with the ghost of a smile. “Alright.”

“Good. Now, what are we doing for this training? No uniform, I take it?”

Chekov looked down at his workout clothes and shook his head. “Whatever if comfortable. I knew I would be kneeling a lot, so…” Chekov’s eyes darted over to Sulu. “I wanted to say… I know you saw me before, when I first returned to the ship, but this is different. Worse, somehow.”

“I’m not going to lose respect for you. Not even an ounce.” Sulu laid a firm hand on Chekov’s shoulder. “In fact, the better you are at this, the better I can learn.”

“Yes.” Chekov brightened a bit. “You are right, of course.”

“We can start slow. Talking through the plan, getting our backstory straight, that sort of thing.” Sulu pulled off his uniform shirt again and tossed it aside.

“You and the captain have been on many away missions together.”

“I’ve been on my fair share,” Sulu said. He snagged a care-worn Starfleet Academy t-shirt, and when he pulled it over his head he caught Chekov watching him with a sad smile.

“I am glad you’re coming with me.”

“Me too,” Sulu said. He get nervous at the thought of facing Trenach for a training session; he couldn’t even imagine who Chekov could have felt facing the prospect of having Trenach as his sole back-up on this mission.

Chekov led the way through the ship’s winding corridors to the workout room where they’d be training. Trenach was already there, looking stiff and impeccable in his red uniform. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said with a disapproving glance at their appearance. His gaze settled on Sulu. “Ensign Chekov informed me that your captain has condoned your presence on this mission.”

Sulu smiled as politely as he could manage, but Trenach’s careful phrasing hadn’t escaped him: _your captain condones, Ensign Chekov informed_. Clearly Trenach didn’t approve of Sulu’s presence, and just as clearly, that disapproval didn’t bother Chekov. “I’m glad we’re all on the same page, then.”

“Yes. You can begin with this.” With a smug smile, Trenach extended a fistful of data chips. “This background research should help bring you up to speed with the rest of us.”

Sulu accepted the chips with a measured, “Yes, sir.” He took his assignment over to the computer console in the corner and arranged himself to keep an eye on Chekov. After all, that would be his most important duty on this mission, and now was as good a time to start as any.  
\--

Chekov followed Trenach over to Sulu, who had been studying diligently for the past few hours. Chekov had been comparing notes with Trenach regarding customs and behaviors, and they’d come to some helpful insights together. He’d half-expected Sulu to balk at being relegated to background research, but his friend had shown remarkable attention to his task.

“Lieutenant, are you making progress?” Trenach asked.

Sulu pulled his eyes away from the console display almost reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”

Chekov glanced at the screen and noted with surprise the article Sulu had been reading—Evingdom’s rebuttal of L’Raeth’s treatise on the Daladrian invasion of Shencar. “You are already reading about the history of political action against the syndicate?”

“It’s fascinating. All the frontal assaults have pretty much ended in disaster. The only first-hand accounts of progress against the syndicate come from people who used subterfuge. I’ll take that as a sign we’re on the right track.” He looked up at Chekov and frowned as he caught the residual expression of surprise. “What? I’m not some jumped-up flyboy, you know. We all studied tactics at the Academy.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. But please remember that no amount of research can substitute for the first-hand experience that the ensign and myself possess.”

Seeing Sulu’s expression darken, Chekov jumped in quickly. “Commander Trenach and I are working on your backstory.”

“Aren’t I going to be playing bodyguard?”

“We must explain how you became a guardsman. In case anyone asks,” Chekov said. “They are not so commonplace as to be boring, you see.”

“Shouldn’t I not remember my backstory?” Sulu asked. “Wouldn’t my memory have been wiped, same as yours was?”

“This is where we are at a disadvantage,” Chekov said slowly. “They are very secretive, guardsmen. My impression is that only those slaves who already had weapons expertise could become guardsmen. I am not sure how they tampered with their memories without destroying those skills, or if they did not tamper with the memories at all, but used some other way to keep the fighters in line. We can only guess.”

“Isn’t there someone who knows more?” Sulu asked.

“Like who, Lieutenant?” Trenach asked.

“Didn’t Uhura say… Vhatus Rho is the only written source we have about these people?”

“Yes,” said Trenach.

“I seem to remember something about…” Sulu put his hand to the console to page through the reading he’d been given. He stopped on the correct screen. “Yes, here it is. He freed all the slaves of the household he’d infiltrated and took them off-planet when he left.”

“Yes,” Chekov said thoughtfully. “And according to his account, there would have been a guardsman among the slaves of that household.”

“So there might be a living source to consult,” Sulu concluded. “One that could explain the nuances of the caste and give me a fighting chance of passing as one of them.”

Chekov nodded eagerly; he shooed Sulu away from the computer console and sat himself down, deftly manipulating the display to search through the Federation contact directory.

“We cannot risk telling civilians of our mission,” Trenach said. “Besides, Vhatus Rho published his account more than thirty years ago. Even if we could track him down, who knows if--”

“Here he is,” Chekov said, pointing to the console’s display. “He settled in the Carpathian system, and still lives with several of the slaves he freed. They run a convalescent facility for slave refugees from twelve systems.”

“Is there any way to tell if the guardsman is among them?” Sulu leaned in close to the console to scan the page Chekov was reading.

“We could ask,” Chekov suggested.

“This is entirely too dangerous,” Trenach insisted. “If these civilians are being watched, contacting them could alert the syndicate we’re planning a move against them. Or what if one of them is actually a double agent? We could be putting ourselves in more danger.”

“More danger than knowing nothing about a caste I’m supposed to be a member of?” Sulu asked. “If one of our covers is blown, we’ll all be dead. If you don’t care about Pavel’s safety, I presume you at least care about your own.”

Chekov drew in a sharp breath, and he turned in time to see Trenach turn white with rage.

“Lieutenant, you forget yourself,” Trenach said crisply, with remarkable control. “The safety of all the participants of this mission is of utmost importance to me.”

“Of course, sir,” Sulu said, but he didn’t sound in the least contrite.

“Sir,” Chekov said. “I have a suggestion.”  
\--

“Jim,” McCoy called down the corridor. Kirk neither slowed down, nor gave any indication that he’d heard. “Jim, damnit, wait up!” McCoy broke into a run to catch the turbolift before the doors closed.

“What’s up, Bones?” Kirk asked without looking up from the padd in his hand.

McCoy scowled at Kirk for a full thirty seconds before coming to the conclusion that out-stubborning Kirk would require more energy than he had to spare. Finally, he said, “I thought you were going to come talk to me.”

“About what?”

“You know damn well ‘about what.’” McCoy hit the stop button the turbolift, and the machinery whined to a halt.

Kirk glanced over at him with an uncharacteristic frown. “If you’re referring to Ensign Chekov’s upcoming mission, then as captain, I don’t really have anything to discuss with my CMO.” He looked down to make a note on his padd.

“So you send your pet Vulcan to do your dirty work?” McCoy snapped.

“You made your feelings on the situation pretty clear,” Kirk said evenly, and without looking up. “I figured if you wanted to discuss it, you’d bring it up.”

“Giving me the goddamn silent treatment? Very mature, Jim.”

Kirk glanced up from his padd. “So you do want to talk?”

“Not really,” McCoy said. “I just want to know why the hell you’re letting this happen.”

“And I want to know why you’re dead set against it,” Kirk shot back.

“I’ve made myself clear.”

“Not to me you haven’t. Why don’t you want Chekov to go?”

“Is this my Captain asking?”

“No,” Kirk said, softening a little. “It’s your friend Jim who you used to drag home from the bars at three in the morning. So explain it to me, because I really don’t get it.”

“It’s too dangerous,” McCoy said. “We don’t know enough to send a team undercover. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Chekov understands the risks, and it’s his decision.”

“It’s too much.” He waved a hand at the world outside. “What other answer do you expect him to give when you and that red-shirted paper-pusher tell him he’s the only one, he’s the only chance to save these people?”

“I didn’t manipulate him into this,” Kirk said quickly. McCoy recognized the signs of Kirk gearing up for a fight, and braced himself. “He’s perfectly capable of putting the facts together himself. He came to his own conclusions about what he wanted to do.”

“His own conclusions,” McCoy snorted. “You mean your conclusions.”

“His own, Bones. He saw something he could do, and he stepped up to the challenge.”

“Unlike me, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are you calling me a coward, captain?” McCoy said through clenched teeth. Here at last was someone who would give him the fight he’d been looking for.

“You’ve never minded following me into stupid situations before. Tell me know this is different.”

“Because, damnit, someone is going to get hurt! Really hurt, and not… not injured. Not even torn halfway apart like you’ve been in whatever barbaric hand-to-hand combat you get up to. That, at least, I can understand, I can fix. But this…” His shoulders slumped as the fight seeped out of him. “Jim, if something goes wrong down there, they could break him. I don’t think I can put him together again. Hell, I couldn’t do it last time, and this would be worse. I can’t watch that happen to him. I can’t do it, Jim.”

“Bones.” Kirk’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, a grounding point. “You can’t keep everyone safe all the time. I know that as well as anybody. You’ll drive yourself crazy trying.”

“Maybe so. But that’s what I do. You can’t help running into danger; I can’t help trying to put the pieces back together. Not this time, Jim. I’m telling you right now.” McCoy shook his head quickly, reached for the lift controls, and jabbed the control to set it running again. “Something’s going to get broken beyond repair.”

The lift slid to a stop on deck six, and as soon as the doors opened, McCoy strode out without a backwards glance.  
\--

“I very much appreciate your help with this article, Doctor Rho,” Uhura said smoothly.

The ancient Rho gave a wrinkled smile in return. “Of course, my dear. There is little enough interest in the slave trade these days. I’d thought the Federation had forgotten about the issue. A bit of coverage, even of the academic variety, might be enough to catch their interest again. You say you had some questions about my written account?”

“One in particular.” Uhura addressed the viewscreen in her quarters with every appearance of relaxation, though the close attention of Sulu, Chekov, and Trenach off to the side out of viewing range would have been enough to unnerve most people. Uhura was not most people. “I wanted to learn more about a certain caste of slaves that you mentioned.”

“I think I know what you mean, dear. The ones that carry weapons.”

“Exactly. I have a theory that I want to explore, but there’s so little literature on the topic that I needed to speak to an expert.”

“So little literature that my bare mention of the subject is enough to make me an expert. What is this theory?”

“It seems to me that slaves who were able to maintain expert knowledge of fighting wouldn’t have had their memories tampered with. I’m exploring the possibility that they weren’t slaves at all, but rather agents that the syndicate put in place to protect their investment and to gather advance knowledge about any unrest among the slaves.”

Rho fell silent and remained so for a long moment Uhura was afraid she’d said something to give away her ruse. Finally, he spoke again, though his words sounded heavy, as if each came only with great effort, “That is simply not so.” He shook his head, which seemed to throw off whatever emotion had held him. “Tell me truly, my dear: do you wish to know about the nature of these slaves?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. His eyes narrowed, as if he were attempting to read her soul, somehow, through the distance between them.

“I have someone I would like you to meet. In person.”

“Sir, I’m not sure that--”

“It’s in person or not at all, young lady.”

“Are you certain that this information can’t be sent another way? In writing, or a holo recording?”

“No.”

Uhura got the impression that asking him to elaborate on that pronouncement would have little effect. Instead, she said, “The Carpathian system is days out of the way of my vessel.”

“Then I’ll send her to you. Agreed?”

From his hiding place, Trenach shook his head emphatically.

“Give me a day to clear the arrangements with my Captain.”

“Very well. I’ll look for your message.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

She ended the transmission and nodded to her watchers. “Sounded like he had strong opinions about the guardsmen.”

“Lieutenant, this has gone too far,” Trenach said. “I object to bringing a civilian consultant in on this mission, especially under false pretenses.”

“You’re welcome to lodge a complaint with the captain,” she said coolly.

“Yes, I am.” He drew himself up and strode out of the room without a backward glance.

“So.” Sulu approached the console. “Who is this that he wants to send you?”

“Hopefully someone who can help you avoid blowing your cover the moment you step onto the planet.”

“Yeah. That’d be nice,” Sulu said glumly. “Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure,” Uhura said, and watched them go. She’d have done this without their prompting, anyway. No friends of hers were going into a mission without all the facts.

Now she just had to convince the captain that this risk was worth it. And the first step was making sure Kirk would be ready to listen to her. She activated her viewscreen again and comm’d Kirk’s quarters.

“Lieutenant Uhura for Captain Kirk,” she announced.

“Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

“Captain, there’s a very agitated Commander Trenach on his way to your quarters.”

“Do I want to know why?” She could hear the amusement in Kirk’s voice.

“Probably not from him. If you meet me in your ready room, I’ll explain.”

“But Lieutenant, if I go to the ready room, I won’t be here to greet my guest.”

“See you in five minutes?”

“Definitely.”  
\--

Chekov’s knees protested his position, but he ignored them. He was re-learning how to block out physical discomfort and any other sensations that detracted from the proper, subservient mindset of a slave. He knew he’d been kneeling less than ten minutes, but it felt like he’d been here all afternoon.

Trenach had put together a list of simulations for them to run: situations they might encounter on Ranii. This particular exercise had Chekov and Trenach practicing the nonverbal signals they’d worked out. Since Pavel would be feigning the mutism that had affected him as a slave, he would need to be able to convey messages to Trenach, and receive messages as well if they were out in public and couldn’t speak freely. Sulu walked in a slow circuit around the room, ostensibly checking for a contact they were to meet. Three security officers were playing the roles of fellow slave traders at this simulated social gathering; they sat in chairs at a rough circle with Trenach.

“So now let’s say we’re on to you,” Petty Officer Daniels said. “Maybe you said something that doesn’t jive with your cover story. You see us giving each other knowing looks.”

“And I reply with some banal pleasantries,” Trenach said. From where he sat, Trenach settled a hand on the back of Chekov’s neck and tapped once with his index finger, the signal for “imminent danger: get ready to run.”

Chekov rose gracefully, trying to project an air of calm. Trenach’s hand on his shoulder clenched suddenly, throwing him off balance. Chekov tripped, Trenach jumped up to catch him, but only succeeded in sending him tumbling to the ground and knocking over the chair in the process. The sharp movement sent their opponents to their feet and reaching for their phasers.

“Bang,” said Lieutenant T’kana. “You’re dead, gentlemen.”

From across the room, Sulu shot them both a look of exasperation. “I’m ten steps away, and no match for an opponent with a phaser, anyway. I’m not going to be able to fight us out of a crowd.”

“I realize that Lieutenant, thank you,” Trenach said stiffly. He pulled down his uniform shirt to straighten it. “I propose we stop for the day. We’ll reconvene at zero nine hundred tomorrow.” With a polite nod to Chekov and the three security officers, he walked quickly out of the room.

T’kana walked over to offer Chekov a hand up. “That’s twelve deaths this afternoon alone. You must be like a cat. Two cats.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Chekov gave her a thin smile. “Thank you for your help with this, anyway.”

“Whatever we can do, just let us know.” She gave him a pat on the arm, and then walked out with the others, headed for the mess.

“This is pathetic,” Sulu muttered.

“You should be more patient with the commander,” Chekov said, and reached up to stretch the muscles of his back. “Your irritation will not improve his skill.”

“Well I wish I knew what would,” Sulu snapped. “Sorry. I’m just frustrated.” He dropped into one of the spare chairs, pulled his collapsible sword off his belt, and laid it across his lap. “I wish we were making faster progress.”

“We are doing alright,” Chekov said, but the words rang hollow, even to him.

“Trenach is terrible, Pavel. I mean, he’s really bad at this. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“You do not know him. He is doing the best he can in this situation.”

“This is his best? If that’s so, remind me never to rely on Starfleet Intelligence ever again.” Sulu drew his sword, and reached for the kit to clean it. Though he hadn’t even gotten a chance to use it today, he was fanatical about his weapons maintenance.

“That is not fair,” Chekov said. He saw how hard the Commander was trying each day, and how much each failure galled him. “He has no background as a practical operative, and he is only trying to do his best.”

“No background as…” He paused in the middle of running a cloth over the sword. “How do you even know that?”

“I perhaps looked at his file,” Chekov muttered.

“You broke into Starfleet’s intelligence database?!”

“I did not _break_ into it,” Chekov protested. “They practically left it unlocked, if you can create a high-level security credentials… Okay, perhaps I broke in. But only because I think understanding the commander will help us complete this mission.”

“What is there to understand, Pavel? He’s an asshat.”

“He is furious with himself because he knows he is failing. Each failure frustrates him further, but when he brings himself under tighter control, he is even less capable of the spontaneity this role requires. And so the cycle becomes a downward spiral.”

“He told you that?” Sulu asked incredulously.

“No.” Chekov half-smiled at the idea of sitting down for a heart-to-heart with the formidable commander. “These things I pieced together from his behavior.”

“Oh.” Sulu’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t realize you could read people like that.”

“It is a skill Pasha picked up,” Pavel explained. He sat down in another abandoned chair and tried to find a way to articulate what he meant. “A survival skill. It helped me to speculate on my masters’ motivations. For example, one master was talking about himself always when he had guests, and I realized that he wanted very much to be flattered. Sometimes I could escape a beating from him if I fed his ego a little.” At Sulu’s pained look, he rushed on. “It is not so difficult a skill to master, I think.”

“Is it strange for you, using these skills again?”

“Many of them I did not stop using, like this one.” Chekov shrugged. “Others… Yes, it is strange.” Strange, and not necessarily something he wanted to discuss with Sulu. His friend would only worry. “I should go get cleaned up.”

“Do you want to go to the gym?” Sulu put away his sword and began packing up his cleaning kit. “I’m going to get in a quick workout before dinner.”

“No, thank you,” Chekov said quickly. He was fairly certain Sulu wouldn’t approve of his methods of getting his body into shape for the mission. “I told Doctor McCoy I would meet him.”

“Huh.” Sulu grabbed the case for his sword and began stowing it away. “I thought it was his card night with Spock and the captain. They usually play on Tuesdays, don’t they?”

“Yes, of course,” Chekov said. Suddenly, the prospect of an evening alone to think sounded unappealing, but he had little alternative. “I must have forgotten. I should go.” He snatched up the bag containing his change of clothes and sped out the door before Sulu could protest.  
\--

McCoy pulled another playing card from the deck to add to his hand. Glaring at it failed to miraculously improve the situation.

Kirk rearranged the few cards he was holding, and took another sip from his half-full glass.

Spock studied his hand, the faces of his opponents, and his hand again before taking a card from the top of the pile.

Kirk pulled a card from his hand silently, without so much as a flourish, and dropped it on the table. Normally he’d be hooting with joy at the good fortune that was turning the game in his favor. Tonight, he looked almost bored. It worried McCoy.

“So.” He broke the heavy silence. “How are the preparations for that mission?”

“What mission?” Kirk asked.

“You know damn well what mission.”

“The Enterprise is a sizeable vessel undertaking a larger number of activities than even you are privy to, Doctor,” Spock said. “You will need to be more specific.”

McCoy worked to keep from crumpling his handful of cards. “The undercover mission,” he said through clenched teeth. “Chekov’s mission.”

“Why don’t you ask Chekov?” Kirk asked.

“I’m asking you.” McCoy pulled another card from the pile and didn’t glance at it before stuffing it into his hand with the rest.

“Such missions are highly classified,” Spock said as he placidly laid down a three-card spread. “The safety of the mission participants could be compromised if too many personnel knew the details of their training and strategy.”

“I’m not asking for their strategy, and you damn well know it,” he snapped. “Jim. You know how I feel about this foolish--.”

“We’re not having this argument again, are we?” Kirk paused in the middle of picking up a card, and turned a sharp glare on McCoy.

“No,” McCoy said quickly. “I’m just asking… I’m asking if he’s okay. If he’s… If he’s handling it okay.”

“Ensign Chekov is an exceptionally confident officer,” Spock said serenely.

“Thanks,” McCoy snapped, and turned to Kirk. “Jim, please.”

Kirk relented. “He’s doing great, Bones. He remembers all sorts of little details that research would never turn up.” Kirk’s mouth twitched into a momentary frown. “It’s all fine. So.”

“So. So what? What’s that face for?”

“Nothing, Bones,” Kirk said quickly. “I’m just disappointed that Spock and I won’t get to be down there knocking heads together.” He slapped Spock’s shoulder. Spock raised an eyebrow and drew another card.

“Sure,” McCoy said, but he knew when Kirk was faking his devil-may-care attitude.

“Doctor,” Spock said. “Your turn.”

“Right.” McCoy saw not a single good card in his hand. He sighed, and played the only one he could.  
\--

Uhura stood between Kirk and Sulu, and one step ahead, so that she could be the first to greet their guest. The woman disembarking from the shuttle was tall and willowy: from her tawny skin spotted with black, Uhura guessed her to be a Rhodain, an isolated people with whom Starfleet had little contact.

The visitor noted the trio immediately, and moved to greet them without hesitation. “You must be the Lieutenant.” She made a small bow in Uhura’s direction.

Uhura returned the gesture at precisely the same angle. She extended a hand toward Kirk. “This is my captain.”

“Sir.” The guardsman—woman, really—regarded Kirk with none of the deference Chekov had shown when he thought himself a slave. “I hadn’t expected a reception from the captain. Doctor Rho sends his greetings. I am Jhellain.”

“James T. Kirk.” He held out this hand. “And I admit we left our arrangements vague on purpose. Did Doctor Rho mention why we’d asked you to come?”

“He mentioned that Lieutenant Uhura had said she was writing an article on guardsmen, but he also said he did not think that was likely.” She took his hand and shook it politely. Although alien facial expressions could be difficult to read, Uhura thought she looked almost amused. “And now I am being greeted by Captain James T. Kirk, so I think my visit is not to serve as research for an academic article, yes?”

“Yes. I apologize for our little deception. If you’ll allow it, I’d like to explain.”

“By all means, captain.”

Kirk led the way to the closest conference room, and the waiting security detail fell in line a discrete distance behind them; crew were used to seeing foreign visitors in the corridors of the Enterprise, but Kirk wanted to avoid any speculation as to the reason for this visitor’s presence. When they had all filed inside the room, Jhellain stopped Kirk with a gentle hand on his back. Their security escort stepped forward. Kirk waved them off.

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony with me, Captain. My time here is brief. I imagine you’ve asked me here because you wish one of your crew to learn our ways. Is this the case?”

“Yes.”

“You?” she asked Sulu.

Sulu looked to Kirk, who nodded. “Yes,” Sulu said.

“The reason you need my help has to do with opposing the slave trade?”

“Yes.”

“Then I need no explanation. I need only speak to him,” she nodded at Sulu.

“Sulu?” Kirk asked, turning to the lieutenant.

“That’s probably best,” Sulu said, eyes fixed on Jhellain.

She nodded to Kirk, but spoke to Sulu. “We should speak alone. There is something I must show you.”

“Right. Sulu, your escort will be in the corridor,” he said, and gestured them toward the door. “Jhellain, please let us know if you need anything.”

She didn’t take her eyes from Sulu, but raised her hand in an unmistakable gesture of dismissal.

Kirk, looking a little affronted, turned to head out. “Uhura,” he prompted.

“Of course.” After a nod to Sulu, she followed. She’d helped arrange this meeting, so he was definitely going to get Sulu to tell her all about it afterwards. Fake academic paper or no, this woman had definitely piqued her curiosity.  
\--

_“You.” Chekov didn’t dare look up, but in his peripheral vision he could see Trenach straighten in alarm at the appearance of the looming figure. Sulu’s hand went to his sword hilt._

_“You’re his master?” asked the stranger. Chekov knew that voice: it belonged to an Usite, one who had been his earliest owner._

_Trenach nodded curtly._

_“I doubt that, outlander. Show me.”_

_Trenach yanked Chekov to his feet by the leash attached to the collar. “Slave, who owns you?” he asked._

_Chekov’s eye drifted beyond Trenach to where McCoy stood in his uniform, half in shadow, his arms crossed over his chest. “He does,” Chekov said._

_The Usite’s mouth curled into a cruel smile, and he turned back to Trenach. “Imposter!”_

_The Usite surged forward. He knocked Trenach out of the way, and Trenach fell, blundering into Sulu and pulling him to the ground. Then the Usite’s hand closed around Chekov’s neck, above the collar. Chekov’s knees buckled with sudden pain, but he couldn’t cry out. He felt pieces of himself melting and warping, as if burning away. The Usite easily shook off his every attempt to free himself, until all the fight was burned out of him. Then the hand around his throat relented. He climbed to his feet, shaking off a lingering dizziness. When he looked at the sword-wielding man beside him, he didn’t recognize his face._

_“Pavel?” the swordsman said._

_The man in the blue shirt behind him stepped up, put his hand on the swordsman’s shoulder, and shook his head. “Don’t bother. That one’s too far gone.”_

_“You, slave.” The Usite snapped his fingers. “Come with me.”_

_Pasha followed._

Chekov dug his fingers hard into his legs to ground himself in his body and bring him back from the nightmare. Tightness in his chest made him realize he hadn’t been breathing; he gulped in oxygen greedily. He’d meant only to meditate and calm the nerves frayed by this afternoon’s practice session. He had succeeded in letting himself drift into the calm, clear headspace he’d used as a slave when required to be still for hours. Then fear had intruded, warping the merciful blankness of that place. He focused on the soreness in his knees from kneeling too long; concentrating on his body would keep him from drifting out again into the place where those cruel visions waited.

Chekov heard the door opening too late to get up from where he knelt.

“What is this?” McCoy took a few steps into the room and raised an eyebrow.

“I am practicing.” Chekov fought the urge to jump up as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Subservience must come naturally to me while I am on the surface.”

“How can you bear to imitate…?” McCoy’s next word caught in his throat, but it was not difficult to guess.

“Imitate Pasha? I do not have to imitate him. He is me, Len; never forget it. The things you saw me do when I had forgotten my memories are still a part of me. What I am practicing is how to hide the other parts of me. Like the part that will want to jump up and strangle the first master who I see raise a hand against his slave.”

“I like that part of you,” McCoy muttered.

“Yes. But I must do this.”

McCoy seemed to struggle with himself to keep from asking his next question, but he voiced it anyway. “How is Trenach getting along?”

Chekov shrugged shallowly and unfolded himself into a standing position. “His experience with the culture is all theoretical. He is improving.” He shook out sore joints while searching for a way to steer the conversation away from Trenach. “Hikaru is learning quickly. I understand why the captain takes him on so many away missions.”

“Pavel.” McCoy stepped closer. He looked as if he wanted to touch Chekov but didn’t quite dare.

“I should go clean up.” Chekov fled to the bathroom and, for once, engaged the lock behind him. He leaned against the door, breathing shallowly. However much he wanted to, he had to prevent himself from asking for McCoy’s help.  
\--

On her way out of the mess, Uhura saw Sulu wandering down the corridor toward her, looking glassy-eyed. “Sulu,” she called. He kept walking right past her. “Hey, Hikaru!” She jogged after him and caught his hand.

He turned, seemed to come back to himself, and finally focused on her. “Uhura? Hey.”

“Hello. You okay? You acted like you didn’t hear me.”

“Sure, yeah, I’m fine,” he said slowly.

“I saw that Jhellain’s ship departed.”

“Did it?”

“Sulu? Look at me.” She put her hands on his shoulder and looked closely at him. “Are you hurt? Did she do something to you?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head.

“You look like you got hit with a board.”

“I really didn’t.”

“I’m taking you to sickbay.”

“Uhura, I’m fine. I just need a minute. I have a lot to process. Walk with me, if you want.”

They walked in silence down the corridor, but Uhura kept a sharp eye on him, just in case poison or an alien spore turned out to be involved.

At last they arrived at the door to his quarters. He thumbed in the code and gestured her inside.

She hadn’t visited Sulu’s quarters before. Along the far wall stood a line of plants, some tall ones in large pots on the floor, others perched on stands according to their size; the arrangement gave the effect of a garden leading off beyond the depth of the room.

Sulu went right to the replicator. “Coffee, black, strong.” He looked back at Uhura. “You want anything?”

“No, thank you.”

The coffee materialized. Sulu wrapped his hands around the mug, carried it over to a chair by the room’s small table, and dropped into it.

Uhura lowered herself into the opposite chair gracefully. “So I take it your discussion went well?”

“Not that well. First, she told me that what I was doing was blasphemy of the highest order, and if I abused my position I’d be sent to the deepest chamber of Rhodain hell. Then she had some descriptive things to say about what went on in that particular hell.”

“Blasphemy. So they are some sort of a religious order,” Uhura mused.

“Some sort. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure exactly. She did tell me a bit about their vows, and their responsibilities with their charges. The seriousness of the duty; making sure one’s charge remained safe, all that stuff. How masters expect you to behave. The rules about the guild that trains all the guardsmen. Then she asked me a bunch of questions.”

“Is it really wise to tell her about the mission?

“I didn’t tell her what we were doing,” Sulu said quickly. “The questions weren’t about that. They were about me, kind of. If I’d ever risked my life to help someone. How I felt about killing. Whether I’d ever been in love. Weird stuff.”

Uhura considered for a moment, but couldn’t come up with a solid theory on how those questions might be related to the mission. “So why the interrogation?”

“It seemed like I was being tested, somehow.” He leaned back in his chair, and looked down at the coffee, which he’d apparently forgotten. He took a slow sip, and then held in back between his hands. “Then I think I might have been baptized.”

“Excuse me?”

“She asked me to repeat a vow, and I did,” Sulu said, staring at a spot on the far wall as if he was struggling to remember the experience. “Then she touched my forehead and said some things in a language I didn’t understand. And she gave me this.” He reached into the pocket of his uniform trousers and pulled out a simple, dull metal collar with a silver mark on the band: a spiraling geometric pattern crossed with a sharp slash.

Uhura looked at the collar, then up at Sulu, then back at the collar. She was definitely regretting letting Kirk drag her away from this meeting. “So this vow… You didn’t accidentally swear fealty to some obscure religion, did you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He sank further in his chair, nearly squirming.

“What? You surely remember something about it.”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I protect, I serve. I am as one with my ward. I become his hand, his arm, his blade. All that has been taken from him, I restore.”

“So that’s what they believe,” she breathed.

“Don’t tell anyone.” He leaned in across the table. “Don’t tell Pavel. Or McCoy.”

“You don’t think it would make them feel safer, knowing exactly what a guardsman is supposed to do?”

“It doesn’t feel right.” Sulu shrugged. “She obviously meant this to be a secret, or she wouldn’t have insisted on talking to me alone.”

“Alright,” Uhura said reluctantly, though she promised herself she’d get more of the story out of him at some point. “Now go back to the part where you got baptized?”  
\--

Chekov fingered the light poly-synthetic band that had adorned his neck for an entire year. Sitting on Lieutenant Commander Scott’s worktable, it felt cold and lifeless. He’d always remembered it as warm to the touch, soaking up the heat of his skin.

“It took me a few attempts, but I have to admit, I’m pleased with the results.” Scotty plucked the collar out from under Chekov’s hand. Before Chekov could step back, Scotty hooked the collar neatly around his throat and fastened it.

Chekov froze momentarily as the collar settled into place with a dreadfully familiar weight. He closed his eyes to conjure the memory of McCoy explaining to a frightened Pasha why he had to remove the collar. He took a deep breath, and the panic passed.

“Looks good as new, if I can say so,” Scott said, blissfully oblivious to Chekov’s wandering attention. He snagged a tricorder off his work table and pointed it at the collar. “There’s a wee chip inside, make I’ve never seen before. It shows your provenance, all right. Last entry’s McCoy buying you at the auction on Bussar. So that’s authentic enough. I managed to piece it back together after McCoy did such a messy job getting it off.” Scotty’s look of disdain made clear what he thought of the doctor’s mechanical abilities. “Now it looks nice and sealed.”

Chekov lifted a hand to the thin collar. It felt warmer, now. “Will I be able to take it on and off? At least until we leave for the mission?”

“Of course, lad. Of course. You release it with this hidden clasp, here.” Scott slid a hand under the right side of the collar. Chekov heard a soft click, and Scott lifted the collar away. “Otherwise, it looks closed, irremovable, as it was before.”

“Thank you, Mister Scott.” Chekov took the collar from him and held it gingerly. “We had thought, perhaps, to purchase a new one at the planet, but I will be more comfortable knowing I can take it off if I must.”

“I can understand that.” His eyes fixed for a moment on Chekov’s neck, now bare. Then he ran a hand through his hair and rushed on. “Anyway, a new collar wouldn’t have the special features yours does.” Scott’s eyes glowed with a slightly manic light. “There’s a recording device with organic parts, so it shouldn’t show up on a standard bug scan. I wanted to rig something up like my signal coins I gave McCoy last time, but I don’t want to risk you being discovered transmitting something. I’m working on a little something that might be useful, but it’s not ready yet.”

“What sort of something? A subspace signal? Can I assist?”

“You’d better not. You’ve enough to worry about with undercover training. I don’t want to distract you. And how is that going, by the way?”

“It is… difficult,” Chekov said at last. He looked down at the collar in his hands. “Everything was so simple when I had been conditioned in these behaviors. It was automatic for me. Now I feel as if I am trying to navigate the Enterprise without the computer’s help, doing each calculation by hand. I understand how it all works, of course, but the effort is much more.”

“You’ve a brilliant mind, Chekov. You’ll get along. If there’s anything any of us can do…” Scotty shook his head. “Well, I don’t suspect there is. Just know that we’re supporting you, and we want you to come home safe again.”

“Yes sir,” Chekov said. He didn’t like the dire tone of Scott’s words, as if he, like Chekov, harbored a feeling of dread about this mission.

“Now get out of here. I still have to fit Sulu with that collar of his. And you can imagine how thrilled he is about that.”  
\--

“McCoy.” Sulu caught his arm and pulled him back into the office he’d just vacated.

“I have rounds, Sulu. I don’t have time for a chat.” McCoy tried to shake him off and realized, to his chagrin, that Sulu’s superior strength made that impossible.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“I trust you don’t mean a problem with the Meringian clap,” he said, gifting Sulu with a withering glare that was completely ignored.

“It’s Trenach.”

“Oh no. No siree.” McCoy swatted away Sulu’s grip and made for the door again. “He’s not my problem. I didn’t agree to any of his damn fool schemes, and you’d better believe I have no intention of hearing you bitch about the consequences of going along with this idea.”

“He’s going to get Pavel killed.” With an athlete’s grace, Sulu darted between McCoy and the door.

“You’re all getting yourselves killed. This whole plan is madness.”

“It’s not.” Sulu jabbed a finger toward the door and the ship beyond. “Pavel knows what he’s doing. He’s brilliant at everything, as you well know. And I’m holding my own. But Commander Trenach… He’s terrible. He’s never done undercover work. He looks clumsy and uncomfortable handling Pavel. He has no aptitude for improvising; the moment a simulation deviates from his scripted out plan, he starts stuttering like a school kid. He flinches every time Pavel touches him. He is not cut out for this.”

As McCoy had thought; this was all going wrong. If they kept up, they were all going to die on that backwater planet. At least Sulu had started to see for himself how ill-advised this scheme actually was. But telling Chekov “I told you so” wasn’t likely to make him change his mind. In fact, any opinion McCoy expressed at this point was likely to be the wrong one. He realized Sulu was still watching him, waiting for an answer. He snapped, “Why are you telling me?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Sulu drew himself up rigidly. “I made the mistake of thinking you cared about Pavel. I won’t bother you with this again.”  
\--

McCoy woke up all at once, eyes snapping open on the total darkness of his quarters. The bed shifted as Chekov tossed beside him.

“Computer,” he whispered. “Lights, ten percent.” The lights immediately provided a soft glow.

Chekov lay curled on his side, his arms clenched protectively over his head. His breath came in short, quick gasps, punctuated every so often by a pained whimper.

The nightmares had returned.

“Pavel,” McCoy said softly. He laid a hand on Chekov’s shoulder. The muscles were knotted with tension.

“Stop. Where is he?” Chekov muttered as he twisted in the throes of whatever nightmare he was living or reliving.

“Pavel, wake up. Come on, now.”

“Don’t go.” Chekov curled further in on himself, fists clenching, and shouted, “Don’t go! Len!”

“Wake up!” McCoy gave him a hard shake. “Pavel!”

Abruptly, Chekov sat up ramrod-straight, and his hand went to circle his throat, as if looking for something.

“I’m here.” McCoy sat up and wrapped his arm around Chekov’s shoulders. Physical contact could sometimes help to ground Chekov after one of these ordeals, and bring him back from wherever the nightmare had carried him.

“I…” Chekov turned his head and seemed to see McCoy for the first time. “Oh, you are here. I dreamed that you came and… Never mind.” He threw his arms around McCoy and collapsed against his chest, his heart beating rabbit-fast.

McCoy held Chekov close and wished he could shelter him from all this: from the memories, from this mission, and from those damn dreams that seemed to weave all Chekov’s fears into an inescapable web. “Pavel, tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what I can do.”

“Nothing.” Chekov shook his head against McCoy’s chest. “It is nothing. Childish fears.”

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask about this mission, but he stopped himself in time. Chekov would never tell him if it were, and he would only feel worse for McCoy’s asking.

Chekov pulled himself out of the protective circle of McCoy’s arms to slump back against the headboard, and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I am sorry I woke you,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry for that, darlin’. Please don’t be sorry for that.” McCoy didn’t like this pulling away Chekov had been doing. He wanted to hold Chekov again, but settled for leaning against the headboard next to him. “I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

“I know.” Chekov sounded tired.

“You haven’t had a nightmare in months.”

“I thought they were gone,” he said in a small voice.

“Is it the same dream? The one you used to have?”

“No. Not the same.”

“I understand if you don’t want to share the details, but you can’t keep holding it in like this, Pavel. You don’t have to try.” When Chekov only shrugged, McCoy tried again. “Can you tell me about it in Russian?”

“Well, I could try.” Chekov sat up a bit straighter. He began, “ _Nu… Vot…_ This seems a little foolish.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“If you say so. _Koshmar byil tak…_ ” Chekov began to speak, haltingly at first, with sentences punctuated by nervous laughter. Then, as he relaxed, his words began to flow more naturally in the lyrical style McCoy had always thought sounded like rhyming poetry. Though he’d been stealing a lesson here and there with Uhura since Chekov’s return, McCoy still had a limited vocabulary, and he picked out only a few words as Chekov’s explanation picked up speed: distance, fear, love.

Chekov draped himself over McCoy’s lap as he continued. When he wasn’t looking directly at McCoy, the words came more freely. He gestured as he spoke, and the force behind the words built into the kind of virulent emotion Chekov seldom expressed. At last he pushed himself up and swung a leg over McCoy to straddle him.

“You understand?” he asked, low, under his breath. “You see?” He leaned in to whisper in McCoy’s ear, sibilant promises in sinful tones. As Chekov spoke, he rocked his hips forward rhythmically and with purpose. Though McCoy couldn’t understand a damn word Chekov had said, his intent was clear enough.

“Pavel,” he whispered.

Chekov licked a stripe up McCoy’s neck and wriggled closer. McCoy wasn’t made of stone. He gritted his teeth and tried to call back rational through as Chekov continued to writhe against him.

“Pavel, we can’t just—this won’t—damnit, we have to _talk_.”

Chekov pressed his hand over McCoy’s mouth and at last met his eyes. “I cannot. Please, I just need…” He leaned his forehead in against McCoy’s and let his hands drop to his sides. “Please. I want to be closer to you.”

“Can’t be much closer unless you crawl inside my skin.”

“I need you inside me. Len, please.”

“Alright.” McCoy’s throat felt very dry. “Whatever you need.”

Chekov stretched over the side of the bed to grab the lube stowed below. He pressed the tube into McCoy’s hand and stripped his pants off at a frenetic pace before climbing into McCoy’s lap again.

“Slow down. Hush. I’ve got you.” McCoy curled a hand around the back of Chekov’s neck and pulled him into a gentle kiss. Chekov kissed him hard, desperately. McCoy returned it softly, slowly, and received an impatient whisper in return.

“I know,” McCoy said, but he wasn’t sure he did. He’d seen Chekov eager and needy before, but never like this, never this recklessly determined. “Hang on.” McCoy opened the lube one-handed and squeezed some messily onto his fingers.

Chekov pushed up on his knees, presenting himself. McCoy quickly obliged, slipping two slick fingers into Chekov, who sighed in apparent relief. Chekov pressed down immediately to take as much as he could. He winced, but continued alternately grinding himself down on McCoy’s hand and thrusting up against McCoy’s belly, his fingers digging painfully hard into McCoy’s shoulders.

“Stop,” McCoy snapped.

Chekov froze, and his eyes flew open.

McCoy tightened his grip on Chekov’s nape and spoke clearly and calmly. “Not like this. You can’t use me to punish yourself.”

Chekov flushed red, then white, and finally he gave a sharp nod.

“Just let me…” McCoy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll give you want you need. Just let go.”

Chekov shuddered beneath his hands, and for a moment, McCoy feared he’d misjudged terribly. Then Chekov leaned forward to kiss him gently, and when they parted, Chekov’s eyes held such naked gratitude that McCoy knew he was doing the right thing.

“Put your hands on the headboard. Go.”

Chekov obeyed immediately. Already some of the wild desperation had faded away, leaving his body relaxed and pliant.

“Up,” McCoy ordered.

Chekov rose up on his knees.

McCoy nodded his approval. “Now stay there.” He slowly slid one finger into Chekov and felt him clench around it. “Good.” He pressed a kiss to Chekov’s chest, then ran a rough tongue over his nipple. Chekov let out a shuddery breath, but managed to remain still. McCoy pushed another slick finger in beside the first. Chekov’s hips jerked forward a little, but he brought himself under control quickly.

“I know,” McCoy whispered. “I think this,” he dropped his hand between them to run a finger up the underside of Chekov’s cock, which strained up against his belly, “needs some attention.”

“Yes. Please,” Chekov breathed.

McCoy circled his thumb and forefinger around Chekov's cock, just below the crown, and squeezed until Chekov's mouth dropped open wordlessly. Then he dragged the circle of his fingers up and down Chekov's length, enjoying the tremors of Chekov's legs against him. "That's it." He worked his fingers inside Chekov out once more, then curved them as he pressed them back in. At a certain angle, Chekov's hips snapped forward, sending him shoving against McCoy's belly.

McCoy chuckled. "There we are." He let his fingers slide over that sweet spot again. This time Chekov was a little better prepared, and managed not to buck as McCoy's talented fingers worked him in just the right way.

"Len. I can't hold on." His head pressed against McCoy's shoulder, and his teeth bit into his bottom lip as he tried to stave off his release.

"Then don't," McCoy said. "Just let go." He wrapped his whole hand around Chekov's cock and pumped it mercilessly. Chekov thrust into his grip, and back onto his fingers as his pleasure built. McCoy whispered to him as he watched Chekov come apart. "You're so beautiful like this. I love having my hands all over you. You feel so good, so soft. And the noises you make... Come on, let me hear you come. Now, Pavel."

Pavel arched against him with a surprised cry, as if he hasn't expected McCoy's words to carry him over the edge. He spilled his seed between them and collapsed forward, shaking against McCoy's chest. A good first step, McCoy knew, but he hadn't given Chekov what he needed, really. Not yet. Quieting Chekov's demons took more than an exhausting orgasm.

"Up." McCoy tapped Chekov's shoulder, and Chekov obeyed sluggishly, struggling up onto his knees. McCoy slicked his own cock, hard and leaking from having Chekov squirm against him and positioned it at Chekov's entrance.

"Now, stay," McCoy said. He ran his fingers over Chekov's softening cock, ultra-sensitive after his orgasm. "You have to show me some patience."

Chekov whined in frustration. He lifted himself off McCoy's shoulder and braced himself against the headboard again. "Okay." His face was still flushed with the glow of his orgasm. His skin shone with the sweat of their exertions, and his curly hair stuck out wildly in every direction. He looked like a debauched angel. "Yes, okay."

Chekov never took his eyes off McCoy, even as McCoy's hands began roaming over his body: smoothing over his back, pinching a nipple, ghosting over the sensitive skin of his cock.

“A few minutes ago, you were trying to get something from me. Tell me what you wanted.”

“I wanted you,” Chekov said. “I want you.”

“How?”

“I wanted you inside me.”

“Didn’t seem like you were interested in a nice gentle screw.”

“No,” Chekov’s eyes flicked down, to a point somewhere at McCoy’s shoulder. “I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want you to claim me.”

“I don’t have to fuck you to claim you,” McCoy said. “You know we belong to each other already.”

“I know.” Chekov met his eyes again, and this time he looked calmer. “But sometimes it is nice to be reminded.”

McCoy pulled Chekov into a kiss, an evenly matched one this time, where they met each other with equal enthusiasm. As he sucked languidly on Chekov’s tongue, McCoy wrapped his hands around Chekov’s waist and began to pull him down onto his cock. Chekov’s moan against his mouth was a delightful reward.

Chekov leaned back to get better leverage, and set about riding McCoy, pushing up with those glorious runner’s legs and slamming himself back down to take McCoy’s cock with a look of fierce joy on his face, and his cock rising again between his legs.

“You need more?” McCoy growled.

Chekov nodded wordlessly, and didn’t slow his frantic pace. McCoy pushed him back, off his lap to bounce against the bed. In an instant he was on top of Chekov; he flipped him easily and drew him up on his knees, with his face pressed into the tangled sheets. McCoy slid back into him with one quick thrust, and Chekov pushed back to meet him.

Here he could go deeper, and give Chekov that loss of control he craved. He felt himself teetering on the edge of something at once dark and seductive, one step away from losing himself in the intensity of this. Beneath him, Chekov panted frantic encouragements, incomprehensible obscenities in Standard and Russian. He stroked himself furiously as McCoy pounded into him.

“Len!” he shouted—the ghosts of the past gone from his voice now, the fear transmuted to a buoyant release—and his body pulled suddenly taut as a bowstring as he reached his peak.

McCoy thrust into him until the clenching of Chekov’s body sent him over the edge, at last allowing that dark, enticing force to pull him under. He fell forward and managed to collapse beside Chekov instead of crushing him. Chekov lay still a few seconds, breathing hard. Then he turned to face McCoy and rested his head against McCoy’s chest.

“Thank you,” Chekov whispered. “You gave me exactly what I needed.”

McCoy felt a swell of pride deflated by the sharp bite of guilt. He was used to knowing what people needed, and giving it to them; such was the cornerstone of his identity, and his profession. He may have given Chekov this, but he knew what else Chekov needed. Chekov needed his help, needed something only he could give, and he was refusing to give it.

“Want to get cleaned up,” he muttered. Chekov made a sleepy sound of protest and reached for him, but McCoy rolled off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, flipped on the lights, and splashed water on his face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror; a stubbled, sunken-eyed stranger looked back at him. “Coward,” he muttered. He turned on the shower, so Chekov wouldn’t wonder what was keeping him, and sat down on the floor with his head in his hands.  
\--

“This isn’t going to work is it?” Kirk muttered.

“No,” Spock said softly.

They stood on an observation room overlooking cargo bay two, where Trenach, Sulu, and Chekov were running through a simulation with a half-dozen security officers standing in as opponents.

“What do you think the odds are that someone from Bussar would recognize you or me?” Kirk asked.

“As one of a few thousand Vulcans remaining, it would not be difficult for a curious party to identify me. And your face is not unknown in this galaxy, sir. Even if you did not encounter someone who’d seen you on Bussar, you would still be in danger of being recognized.”

“Damn. What about another officer? Anyone on board with rank and undercover experience. Do we have time to train someone else?”

“We rendezvous with the civilian shuttle in four days. That is little time to build trust between partners and impart the necessary information to someone unfamiliar with the culture and the background of this conflict.”

In the cargo bay below, one of the security officers put a hand on Chekov’s neck. Trenach turned to say something, but a second enemy came to the aid of the first. As they began to argue, Sulu moved closer, and Kirk saw his hand drop casually to his sword hilt. Something Trenach said made the security officers laugh. One of them grabbed Chekov by the arm and pulled him away. After that, the cargo bag descending into chaos as the security officers pulled their sidearms and lit up the room with flashes of light designed to simulate phaser blasts. Trenach went down in seconds, and Sulu lasted only a little longer.

“It can’t go on like this,” Kirk said. “I’m not sending them down there if they can’t pull it off. We’ll have to wait until we have another chance.”

“The odds of an occurrence of a better opportunity are astronomically low.”

“Lower than the mission succeeding as it now stands?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I would estimate not.”

Behind them, Kirk heard a ragged exhalation of breath. He whirled to see McCoy standing a few paces in the doorway, jaw clenched, hands in fists at his side.

Spock recovered first, and he said placidly, “Doctor.”

“Bones, how long have you been standing there?” Kirk asked.

“Long enough.” McCoy moved forward haltingly, until he stood between them, looking down on the scene in the cargo bay. “Look, Jim. I want you to tell me honestly. If Pavel goes in there with some good back-up, do we really have a chance at bringing this thing down?”

“Yes,” Kirk said flatly. He’d been known to exaggerate on occasion, sure, but he wouldn’t lie to McCoy about this. “If he can blend in with the locals and attract just enough attention to get invited to one of the major officials’ celebrations, then he can plant the tracking device we need. We’ll be able to find the main base of operations. If the ships head to Usia, as we suspect, we’ll have evidence of their involvement, and be able to bring down the Federation justice system against them. Is that about right, Spock?”

“Yes. The long-standing trafficking systems in this sector could be dismantled, and the potential exists to eradicate the entire syndicate.”

McCoy nodded. He turned away from the observation window to look at Kirk. “Jim, I don’t want him to do this.”

“I know, Bones,” he said. He wished he could give his friend better comfort, but he knew no platitudes would help him.

“I don’t want him to do this, and he can’t do it without me.”

“We can cancel the mission. I’m not letting you go down there out of some misplaced sense of guilt.”

“I understand why he wants this so badly.” McCoy looked back out at the observation deck where, from this distance, Chekov seemed very small. “I’ll do it, Jim. God help me, I’ll do it.”  



	3. Chapter 3

At the end of the current simulation, which had concluded with all three operatives captured, Kirk comm’d the cargo bay to ask Trenach to come up.

“I don’t think you want to be here for this, Bones. How do you feel about breaking the news to Sulu and Chekov?” Kirk asked.

“If I have to.” He stood still with what Spock supposed to be a pensive frown.

Spock asked. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

McCoy’s expression morphed into a full-blown scowl. “Absolutely not. I’ll do it.” He turned on his heel and marched out.

In the silence he left behind, Kirk whistled. “Analysis, Mister Spock?”

“I believe we are fortunate that Doctor McCoy came to this decision.”

“Yes, but do you think he’ll be okay?”

Before Spock could answer, the door slid open, and Commander Trenach strode in. He displayed many of the characteristics indicative of an agitated human: raised shoulders, pursed lips, a flushed complexion. “Captain Kirk. You wanted to speak with me?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the mission.”

“I see you’ve been keeping a close eye on our training.”

“How do you think it’s been doing?”

“Ehem. Well.” Trenach’s hands fluttered at his sides, as if he wasn’t certain what to do with them. “We are building on the skills the team has.”

“I can see that,” Kirk said. Spock thought his captain did an admirable job of not laughing at the banal absurdity of that claim. “I’d like to make a change in mission personnel.”

Trenach narrowed his eyes and glanced suspiciously at Spock. “We’ve already been training together for weeks. Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov have done extensive background research, and mastered the skills required for the mission. I don’t see how--”

“I’m removing you from the mission, Commander. Doctor McCoy has volunteered to take your place.”

Trenach straightened up to his full height. Spock prepared himself for an outburst, but instead of yelling, Trenach nodded crisply. “I appreciate your convincing the doctor to take go.”

“I didn’t convince him, exactly. He came to his own decision.”

“I assume you’ll want me to provide him with a briefing on the mission activities to date.”

“Yes,” Kirk said.

“Then with your permission, we should get started. Time is short. Thank you, Captain.” He nodded to Spock. “Commander.”

After Trenach cleared the door, Spock raised an eyebrow. “I did not expect that reaction.”

“Me neither,” Kirk said. He slumped back against the observation window. “I feel kind of cheated, actually. I would have enjoyed a good shouting match.”

“Of course, Jim,” Spock said dryly. “Regrettable.”

“Alright. Now that Bones is in, are we going to have enough time to get him ready?”

“His participation alone increases the mission’s odds of success.”

“This is the right thing to do, isn’t it, Spock?”

“Right in what sense?”

“For him. For Chekov.” Kirk turned to look down at the cargo bay again, where McCoy held Chekov at arm’s length, talking, while Sulu stood beside them. “Bones needs this. He still can’t believe Chekov came back, not really. He keeps expecting Chekov to break at any minute.”

“I believe Mr. Chekov will benefit from such closure as well. He still has some difficulty integrating his memories from his time on Bussar with his established self-image.”

“He told you that?” Kirk asked with undisguised surprise.

“I thought it was obvious.”

“Right.” Kirk gave one of those ambiguous smiles Spock could never quite interpret. It faded quickly. “This is a mission, not an appointment with the ship’s counselor, Spock. Even if the mission goes well, they might not get any kind of closure. Is it really worth exposing them to, as Bones says, a potentially triggering situation?”

“Jim, we have discussed the pros and cons of who to send on this mission. Have you developed some new concern?”

“No.” Kirk shook his head slowly. “Same old ones.”

“Then it appears we are decided. We must simply do all we can to prepare them.”  
\--

To Sulu’s surprise, McCoy came storming into the cargo bay moments after Trenach left. He’d been chatting with the security personnel, asking if they had any suggestions on how they could possibly avoid Trenach getting them killing five minutes into the mission. When McCoy arrived, he excused himself quickly, and went to stand with Chekov.

McCoy had rolled in like a steam train, but he ground to a halt several feet away from them, as if he hadn’t planned any further than his entrance.

“Len,” Chekov said. Then, quickly, “Doctor.”

“Chekov. Sulu. I…” He glanced up and to the side.

Sulu followed his eyes to the windowed room overlooking the bay, and saw Kirk and Spock standing together. They’d been watching, and now Trenach was on his way up to them. That had to mean something, though Sulu couldn’t fit the pieces together.

Chekov took a step forward and caught McCoy’s hand. “What’s happened?”

“I changed my mind.”

“About what?” Sulu asked.

“The mission,” he said to Chekov. “I’m coming with you.”

Chekov sucked in a sharp breath. For a moment, he didn’t seem to know what to do. Then he wrapped McCoy in a fierce hug. Almost as quickly, he released him, and stepped back to a more professional distance. “I… I am glad to hear that.”

“Welcome aboard,” Sulu said. He slapped McCoy on the back and gave him an apologetic smile. He knew McCoy was no coward, and no slouch; he’d proved as much when Chekov first came back, and Sulu hadn’t been fair in berating him for not choosing to accompany them sooner.

“Wait, does this mean you are coming as well as Mister Trenach?” Chekov looked nervously the way the Commander had gone.

“No,” McCoy snorted. “I don’t think anything would have convinced me to take that mission. It’s just the three of us.”

“Good,” Chekov said. “Doctor McCoy… Thank you.”

“We’ve got a lot to do,” said Sulu. “Four days isn’t a lot of time.”

“I am not concerned,” Chekov said. For the first time in weeks, that didn’t sound to Sulu like forced optimism.  
\--

McCoy was almost certain he hadn’t been this tired since the Narada incident. Trenach seemed determined to inure McCoy to all the unpleasantness he might encounter on the mission, and loaded him down with hours and hours of reading, watching vids, and listening to recorded accounts regarding the slave trade. Uhura had done her own research on Raniian culture, and caught McCoy up in hour-long chunks of tutoring. Lieutenant T’kana, the security officer who’d been running simulations for Trenach, walked McCoy through the exercises they’d undertaken in the past weeks. Scotty had presented half-a-dozen of his infernal contraptions that he was sure would make the difference in accomplishing their mission, including some sort of an organic tracking compound that Chekov had seemed very excited about. For their part, Sulu and Chekov had endless ideas about preparations what absolutely must be done at any given minute.

The latest of these had involved a meeting with Spock whose purpose McCoy hadn’t quite understood before they’d dragged him here. Now, however, he was starting to get the picture.

“Well?” Chekov asked. “What do you think?”

From across the conference table, Spock regarded the three of them—Chekov, McCoy, and Sulu—with a measuring gaze. At last, he said, “I cannot make you a telepath, if that’s what you are asking.”

“No,” Sulu said impatiently. “That’s not what we meant. You have to have some methods of blocking out others’ thoughts. Otherwise you’d be drowning in someone’s thoughts every time someone brushed against you in the turbolift.”

“Not exactly, but your point is well taken. Vulcans do learn mental disciplines to allow us to protect our minds from unintended or unwanted contact.”

“Could you teach a non-telepath?” Chekov asked.

“I don’t know if such a thing is possible.”

“But you don’t know if it’s impossible,” McCoy broke in.

“Indeed.” Spock nodded to him.

“Pavel’s had his mind invaded before, and I’m certainly not eager to know what it feels like. If we do run into an Usite down there—or any other telepath for that matter—we could blow the whole mission,” Sulu pointed out. “Because we’re slaves, I assume there are no ethical constraints preventing abuse like that.”

“No, I would imagine there are not.”

“There was a barrier in my mind before,” Chekov said. “Blocking off my memories. Could something like that be built around our minds? Like a protective wall?”

“The Usites take many more liberties with others’ minds than Vulcans. I had never seen the type of mental barricade they created in you, Ensign, and I doubt I could create such a thing. I am certain a non-telepath would not be able to do so. However, I am willing to make the attempt to impart methods for shielding your thoughts. We will see what use untrained minds can make of such things.”  
\--

Chekov intercepted Nurse Chapel in sickbay, as she was replacing parts in a medical scanner. “Is he here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Chapel said, and nodded towards the CMO’s office. “He thinks he has to work ahead or this place will fall apart while he’s gone. I told him we could carry on fine without him, thank you very much, but he doesn’t listen. You know.”

“I know.” Chekov smiled. He wove his way through the bustle of sickbay to McCoy’s door, and rang the chime.

“Come,” McCoy called.

Chekov entered to find McCoy sitting at his desk, staring bleary-eyed at his display console, with a stack of data chips in front of him. He looked up immediately. “There you are. I didn’t see you in the mess.” He went back to looking at the display console, and frowned at something there.

“No.” Chekov decided not to mention that lunch had been four hours ago. “I am not eating much.”

“Is it nerves?” This time McCoy gave him a sharp, appraising look with a doctor’s eye. “I told you, you need to eat.”

Chekov shook his head. “I look too fit for a pleasure slave. I have to lose some muscle mass.”

He pushed himself out of his chair and headed over to Chekov. “I’m not sure starving yourself is the way to—”

“This is not what I wanted to speak to you about.”

McCoy stopped where he was. “Of course not.”

“I wanted to say something about the mission.”

“Oh.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Should I sit down?”

“If you wish,” Chekov said evenly. “This thing I have to tell you is not easy.”

McCoy went back to his chair, and gestured for Chekov to take a seat as well. “So. Is something wrong?”

“No, not wrong. You know how relieved I am that you are coming. So now…” He’d been thinking of how to discuss this with McCoy since yesterday, and he’d chosen McCoy’s office for the encounter in hopes that they could talk about the situation as colleagues and fellow officers.

“Now what?” McCoy looked at him as if he expected something horrible.

Chekov took a breath to fortify himself, and launched into what he’d come here to say. “I have prepared myself for certain aspects of this mission. I have explained to Sulu, somewhat, but because he has not seen, I am not sure he understands. You have seen what it is like for masters and slaves, and I think you have some idea of what we may need to do to on Ranii in order to fit in.”

McCoy paled, but he nodded. “I have some idea, yes.”

“I want to say now that I am giving consent for those things, whatever they are. It is important that you not hesitate, and I know you will be concerned for my safety, so this is one thing you must not worry about.”

“Pavel, you can’t know--”

He forged on. “I may not know for certain everything that will happen, but I have an idea. I may have to wear a certain garment, or take part in certain rituals. I may, for example, be obligated to perform sexual duties at a gathering, or in public. I may be required to participate in activities with other slaves.”

“Did these things happen to you before?” McCoy asked softly.

“These things happen,” Chekov said. He preferred not to tell McCoy more of his past than he needed to know. The details would only distress him. “And something else. You may be required to do things as a master that may not seem pleasant for me. Ordering me to do things, or speaking to me a certain way, or punishing me. Hurting me. You must not hesitate to do these things in order to continue the mission.”

“Pavel…”

“I am telling you know so that you can prepare yourself, and so that you know you have my permission.” He tried to sit up straighter in his chair, and to project an air of competence, but all he really wanted to do was jump across the desk and kiss the worry off McCoy’s face. “Can you do this?”

“I don’t want to,” McCoy said evenly, “but I will if we have to.”

“Thank you.” He stood up, eager to put the conversation behind him, but stopped before he reached the door, and turned back. “One more thing. I may need to do things you will not like. You must promise not to hate me for them. You must promise not to hate yourself.”

“I could never hate you, Pavel.”

“Do not be so sure, until we have survived this,” Chekov said softly. McCoy stood, and Chekov shook his head and took a step backwards. “I should go. Mister Scott wanted to make some final adjustments to my collar before we board the shuttle.”

“Pavel.” McCoy stayed where he was, respecting the distance Chekov had put between them. “I love you.”

“And I you.” He stepped back, and the door whooshed open. “Only remember what I have said.”  
\--

“I assume you want bourbon,” Kirk said.

McCoy dropped onto the couch in Kirk’s quarters and nodded. With a shuttle trip imminent, any kind of alcohol sounded perfect. Though he’d grumbled when Kirk came to roust him out of his office for a bon voyage toast, he was profoundly grateful to not be spending his last pre-mission hours sitting alone in his office, worrying himself sick. And he’d bet his next shore leave that Kirk knew that very well.

Kirk handed him a snifter of straight Kentucky bourbon. McCoy swirled it in his glass, letting the scent wash over him slowly. The first sip tasted divine: rich and oaky. “You’ve been holding out on me, Jim.”

“Actually meant to save this for your birthday, but I figured this was a good occasion, too.” Kirk settled next to him on the couch with his own drink, bourbon on the rocks.

“Damnit, Jim. Could you act a little less like I’m marching off to my death.”

“Not marching, Bones. Flying.”

“Flying in a tin death trap.”

“Then it won’t be a very drawn-out death.”

McCoy chuckled at that, and they both sipped their drinks.

“Tell me God’s honest truth, Bones. Is your heart in this mission?”

“Chekov’s in this mission,” McCoy answered immediately. “Which means I’m in it, which means I’ll do what I have to do.”

“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, I’ll give you that.”

“Takes one to know one.” McCoy raised his glass. “To this damn mission.”

“To the mission.” Kirk clinked his glass against McCoy’s and drank. To his credit, Kirk left talk of the mission alone for a while. He distracted McCoy with petty ship’s gossip intended to goad him into cranky comments about the tasteless ruffians on the ship. Before McCoy realized it, he’d finished a second glass of bourbon, and the desperate tension that had paralyzed him since he spoke to Chekov had begun to dissipate.

The comm rang, and Kirk answered quickly. “Captain Kirk here.”

“Captain,” Uhura said. “The civilian shuttle is approaching. They should be docking in about ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” He turned the comm off, and turned back to McCoy. “Your ride’s here.”

“Yeah.” McCoy threw back the rest of his glass: the smoky flavors tasted sharp all of a sudden. He stood up and smoothed out his uniform shirt; this was the last time he’d be dressed as an officer for a while. “Jim.”

Kirk set down his glass, strode over to McCoy, and caught him in a tight embrace. McCoy hugged him back, grateful for the comfort. At last, Kirk pulled away. “Be safe, Bones. Come back to us.”

With a reluctant nod, McCoy departed.  



	4. Chapter 4

McCoy stepped to the edge of the loading bay, a safe distance from the other passengers waiting to disembark. Sulu stepped up beside him, and Chekov came a discrete step behind them both. “Stay close now,” McCoy muttered. “The station’s going to be a madhouse.”

“I’ve got your back,” Sulu said. “You just concentrate on looking bad-ass.”

The loading bay door opened, revealing the bustling chaos of civilian starbase Lord’an Four. Lifeforms of all sizes and origins passed each other on their way to another loading dock, or to the trading post near the center of the base, each intent on his or her own business. McCoy stepped out, followed by his two shadows, and became just another unremarkable presence in the crowd.

After two days on a shaky civilian passenger shuttle that made McCoy long for the relative stability of the transport from the Riverside ship yard, McCoy looked forward to a few hours on the station before the cruiser on which they’d booked passage departed for Ranii. McCoy had at least gotten a chance to rest on the shuttle, but he found that any stretch of down time left him drowning in anxiety about the upcoming mission. Luckily Chekov and Sulu had kept him busy reviewing mission parameters and tactics. He felt confident now in their ability to help him navigate the slave culture, even if he was ostensibly the one in charge.

There hadn’t been much chance for privacy on the shuttle, but the previous night, the last before they assumed their roles as master and slave, Chekov had climbed into McCoy’s bed, curled up beside him, and held him through the night. McCoy had slept peacefully, but when he’d woken up this morning, he couldn’t help but wonder when the two of them would have a chance for such peace again.

They made their way through the crowded byways of the starbase. Sulu and Chekov fell easily into step, both in their proper places. Their passage for the next leg of the trip was already booked, but they wanted to be seen on board the starbase. Ostensibly, the three passengers their civilian transport had picked up from the Enterprise were going on to a different system, while a Doctor Leonard Annidar and his two companions would be boarding a cruiser bound for Ranii. No one would be able to trace their origins back to the shuttle’s brief stopover on a Federation vessel.

As they walked, McCoy scanned the crowd for signs of other slave owners. Though the owning and trading of sentient lifeforms was forbidden in Federation space, here on the outskirts, rules were not strictly enforced. Outside of strongholds of slave culture like Bussar and Ranii, slave owners had to tread carefully to avoid drawing undue attention from the authorities. That’s why, though Chekov and Sulu were both wearing their collars, their outfits mostly obscured their necks. They were saving the more slave-appropriate garb for Ranii.

McCoy, on the other hand, had to start looking like a prosperous enough man to own slaves. He wore an outfit similar to the one he’d worn on the mission to Bussar: rich fabrics of soft brown, well-tailored into breeches and a tunic belted at the waist. This time, rather than paper currency, he carried his wealth in the form of untraceable, anonymous chips to offworld credit accounts that Trenach had assured him were _de rigueur_ among interplanetary slave traders.

He wove through a crowd of travelers to a small stand set against the bulkhead, where an Enolian woman peddled some steaming, dark beverage that McCoy sincerely hoped was caffeinated. “One,” he told her.

She eyed Chekov and Sulu, and asked, “None for your… companions?”

“No,” he said, and handed over his credit chip.

She didn’t bat an eye, merely scanned the chip and returned it along with a long container of the warm drink. “Enjoy your travels.” She nodded to the other two. “Boys.”

McCoy scouted out a corner out of the flow of the traffic, and stood drinking his bitter-tasting tea-like concoction while Sulu and Chekov stood silently behind him.

The patterns of traffic were fascinating to watch as strangers assessed each other, ignored each other, or, occasionally, confronted each other. McCoy watched a Farian man carrying a large basket bump into a Bolian woman in an elaborate head scarf. The two proceeded to argue with increasing enthusiasm until a security force came to break up the fight.

McCoy saw several species he couldn’t name, and made a mental note to look them up when he returned to the Enterprise. If he returned.

A pocket of stillness in the crowd drew McCoy’s attention. A tall woman in a long red coat with a high-ridged forehead and tightly curled hair stood next to a hooded figure several inches shorter than she. She had stopped in the middle of the flow of traffic, but something about her appearance caused passers-by to leave a wide margin as they parted around her. She was staring at the corner where McCoy stood. She looked them over critically, and her eyes caught on Chekov. She grabbed her companion’s hand and cut a path through the crowd directly to them. “Pardon me, you don’t happen to be en route to Ranii, do you?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Hm. I was hoping so.” She smiled at McCoy, and then nodded at Sulu. As he returned her nod, the collar flashed silver above the high cut of his shirt, and her smile widened. “I’ve just been having the most terrible luck. The ship I had engaged has been delayed, and I simply can’t be late for the festivities, you understand. Do you suppose your ship has extra berths?”

“I have no idea. We booked our passage weeks ago,” McCoy said. Her companion still hadn’t said anything. He kept his eyes trained studiously on the floor, and McCoy started to get an uneasy feeling.

“Of course, I’d take any available seat to get to Ranii on time. What ship did you say you were on?”

“The Septimus.”

“Yes. Well I’ll check with the captain. I’m sure I can arrange something. Forgive my rudeness. Lady Excelsia Mihran.” She extended her hand, palm down.

“Doctor Leonard Annidar.” He lifted her hand to brush his lips against it.

“A doctor. I’m charmed. I look forward to seeing you aboard.” She grabbed her companion by the wrist and pulled him away.

All three watched her go with puzzlement and no little trepidation.

“Well,” Sulu said. “At least we look like slaves.”  
\--

Their lodgings for the two-day journey on the Septimus consisted of a single cabin with one bed, a hard-looking bunk in the corner, and a thin bedroll in at the foot of the bed. Sulu dropped the packs he was carrying—his and McCoy’s—next to the door, and Chekov followed suit.

“I trust you’ll find the accommodations comfortable,” the steward said as he showed them in. “We also maintain separate barracks for… attendants if you’d prefer not to have to handle them on your own during your journey.”

“That won’t be necessary,” McCoy said wearily. “Thank you.”

“You should know that almost all the other guests are also bound for the festival on Ranii, so there’s no need to stand on ceremony while you’re aboard.” The steward’s eyes slid to Chekov, who was quietly arranging their gear, and raked him over so quickly Sulu couldn’t even be sure he’d done it. “If there’s anything you need, please comm us.”

He oozed his way out the door with another bow. Sulu engaged the lock behind him.

Chekov pulled a mini-tricorder from a pack: the stripped-down version of the tool was disguised as a jewelry box, and only about as long as his hand. Sulu and McCoy watched silently as he carried it slowly around the room, scanning for listening devices. At last he nodded, satisfied. “Clean,” he said.

“I wonder how they decided on this kind of accommodations for us,” McCoy said. He stood over the metal bunk jutting out of the wall. “I don’t think Trenach booked a room for one master, two slaves.’”

“Hopefully that means we’re doing a good job,” Sulu said. He tugged at his collar, which was already starting to feel confining. “I don’t think I want to know what those barracks are like.”

“The person who was with that woman—Lady Mihran—must have been a slave,” Chekov said. “He did not speak, and he did not even look at us.”

“She might be a useful contact,” Sulu pointed out. He hadn’t like the way she’d looked him over, like he hadn’t been a person at all; that was another piece of evidence in favor of her being involved in the slave trade. “She knew about the festival. She might have other information we could use about the planet and the traders there. We’d have two days to get a jump start on intelligence gathering.”

“That sounds as good a plan as any,” McCoy said. “As long as she actually made it onto this ship, and if we can find her.”

“Look,” Chekov said as he scrolled through something at the old-fashioned display screen mounted on the wall. “There is a cocktail hour before dinner.”

“Perfect,” McCoy muttered. “I could use a drink.”  
\--

McCoy had to remind himself not to stare. Before leaving the room, they’d taken care to dress Chekov and Sulu in the more conservative of the outfits they’d packed. Despite what the steward had said, they had no intention of having their mission derailed by local authorities. As it turned out, they really needn’t have bothered with modesty; almost every passenger they passed on the way to the ship’s small drawing room was attended by one or more slaves, most of whom were dressed scantily, if at all.

A number of small tables dotted the room. They seemed to be populated mostly by well dressed lifeforms: men in neat ties and shiny shoes, women in flashy jewelry and elaborate headgear. Sulu nudged McCoy’s side and nodded toward a side wall. Along a narrow dais knelt several slaves, heads down, unmoving.

A steward appeared in front of McCoy. “Good evening, Doctor Annidar,” he said. McCoy decided not to speculate on how the staff recognized him. “Would you like to have your companions set aside before dinner, or will they be attending you?”

A glance around the room revealed that several owners had slaves kneeling next to them at their tables, so McCoy said, “They’ll be attending me.”

The steward led the three of them to a table near the far wall, blessedly distant from the wall of slaves on display. He pulled out the chair for McCoy, who sat gingerly. Chekov settled himself easily into a kneeling position, and Sulu took up a standing vigil behind him, back to the wall, scanning the room. The steward left McCoy with a menu and an obsequious smile.

“We’re like a damn parade,” McCoy muttered. “And I don’t know what the hell any of these drinks are.”

“Company,” Sulu whispered.

McCoy looked up to see a familiar figure approaching. Lady Mihran wore a tight-fitting dark green dress, and had her auburn hair pinned up in an elaborate style. She held a narrow glass in one hand that she set down on McCoy’s table. “So pleased to see you again, Doctor.”

“Lady Mihran.” McCoy stood to greet her, and Sulu fell back to a more respectful distance. McCoy took her proffered hand for a quick kiss. She glanced at the empty seat across from him. Even McCoy recognized the cue. “Would you like to join me?” he asked.

“Delighted.” She waited for him to pull out her chair, then sat. McCoy silently blessed his upbringing in circles that insisted on proper Southern manners. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for suggesting this ship, Doctor. I simply cannot abide being late, and it’s such an important trip.”

“Pleased to be of assistance.” McCoy resumed his own seat.

“Are you going in for the festival?” She signaled the steward to refresh her drink.

“Yes,” McCoy said. “You?”

“Of course. We go every year.”

“This is our first visit.”

“I see. Did you find it difficult to choose the slaves to accompany you? It’s always a matter of some contention in my household. Although honestly, my stock turns over so quickly that I never have to worry about bringing the same toy twice. This time I only brought a half-dozen for trading, and three to attend to my personal needs.”

“I only have two slaves.”

“Well,” she said, and sipped her drink. He could see her re-arranging her assumptions about him and trying to judge his place in the complex social order. “They are lovely. May I?”

McCoy nodded reluctantly.

She rose out of her chair and approached Sulu. He kept his gaze trained outwards, on a point in the middle distance, while she looked at him in way that suggested he had no more sentience than a stone. She touched his neck, near his collar. “I’ve never seen one of his kind up close. They’re dreadfully difficult to acquire. How did you come by this one?”

“The guild decides where they’ll go,” McCoy said, just as Sulu had instructed him. “You can’t buy one of them, either: only a temporary contract from the guild. They go where their wards go.”

“I had no idea there were so many rules.” She let her hand slide down Sulu’s arm, feeling the muscle there, and pulled away before reaching the hilt of his sword. “He’s a fine specimen,” she told McCoy.

He nodded politely, but privately thought that he’d seen horse traders who gave more respect than this in their inspections.

She stepped over to stand before Chekov. She cupped his jaw and tipped his head up. Chekov kept his eyes lowered deferentially. She brushed her thumb against his cheek, and McCoy frowned when Chekov leaned into it.

“He must be valuable, if you’ve engaged a guard for him. Or perhaps you’re just not used to handling slaves, and you needed some additional help?”

“Oh, I can handle him, all right.”

“Hm, yes.” She gave him a darkly speculative look. “I imagine you can. I’d like to see that.” She turned back to Chekov. “Look at me, slave.”

Chekov’s eyes flicked up; he kept his expression carefully schooled to blankness.

“Lovely,” she breathed, with every evidence of sincerity. “You’re like a little golden angel, aren’t you, darling?” Her hand slipped into his curls, and he bent easily under her hand. “And so responsive.” She petted down the length of his arm. “Poor thing shakes like a leaf.”

“And he’s private property,” McCoy said sharply. At her look of amusement, he said, more respectfully, “Ma’am.”

“He’s delightful,” she said, at last releasing her hold. “A lovely creature. Would you like to see my prize?”

“Not particularly,” McCoy muttered.

“Oh come now,” she smiled. “It’s only polite, since you were so kind as to let me see yours. Luka!”

A youth with dark, silky hair that fell against his neck rose gracefully from his kneeling position along the dais. When he came into the light, McCoy caught sight of the delicately pointed ears peeking out from beneath his hair. McCoy had to work hard to school his expression into simple surprise, rather than the outrage that threatened to give him away. “Is that a Vulcan?”

“Yes indeed.” Her eyes sparkled. “Luka, let the man see you.” The Vulcan kneeled in front of McCoy and dropped his hands to his sides placidly.

McCoy looked him over, but knew better than to put his hands on a touch telepath. “He’s a full Vulcan?” he asked. As far as he knew, Spock was the only half-blood Vulcan in existence, but there was no telling what the syndicate had been up do.

“Yes,” Mihran said fondly. “Usually, you know, they are so difficult to acquire, but after the destruction of their planet, a few traders were lucky to get a hold of some. In all the chaos of the evacuation, no one was paying much attention to which ships beamed up whom. Cost me a king’s ransom, but this little gem is one of those fortunate finds. Aren’t you, lovely?”

Luka nodded, but with his eyes downcast, McCoy couldn’t even try to read his expression.

“Do you have plans for the evening?” Mihran asked. “It’s been a dull journey for us so far, and I’d welcome a little excitement before we reach Ranii tomorrow.”

“I don’t share,” McCoy blurted.

Her laugh, clear and resonant like bells, filled the chamber. “All right, dear. Disappointing, but I can see why you would want to keep these two to yourself. Dinner, then? Just you and me. I have things to discuss that little ears shouldn’t hear.”

“Fine,” McCoy said reluctantly. “I have to eat anyway.” It would give Chekov and Sulu a chance to be alone and take a break from the constant burden of acting subservient.

“Delighted. See you in the dining room at eight.”  
\--

Chekov waited until Sulu closed and locked the door behind them to dash to their luggage and pull on a warm jacket. The nearly-transparent shirt he’d been wearing was little proof against the cold air of the ship. He was certain that the chill he felt came only from the discomfort of being naked, and had nothing to do with the hard lump of fear that had settled inside him from the moment he put on his collar.

“You alright?” Sulu stood near the door, slowly unbuckling his sword belt.

“Yes, of course,” Chekov said. He jumped up on the bed and began to stretch out his legs; he still wasn’t used to kneeling for long stretches of time.

“You sure? You were shaking like crazy out there. Even that woman noticed.”

“I am fine,” Chekov said, more sharply than he’d intended. “It is only the cold.”

Sulu crossed the small space between them to sit on the bed next to Chekov. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t. We’re not going to have many chances to talk together in private, and if something’s bothering you, you need to tell me or McCoy. That’s part of being a team.”

Chekov felt his face heat as a furious blush crept up his neck. “I know,” he muttered. “I apologize. When I was a slave before it was so important not to let anyone know what I was thinking.”

“I get it.” Sulu laid his sword aside and stretched upwards, popping tired joints. “I’ve been doing this for a day, and already this standing around, not saying anything is getting difficult. And I’m not even supposed to be mute. You had a whole year to learn how to do that gracefully.”

“You are right, though. We must share what we observe when we can.”

Sulu’s expression darkened. “That Vulcan.”

“Yes,” Chekov said. “I never saw one before, as a slave. How she can talk about acquiring him…” Chekov remembered too well the abject, reeling horror of the first few minutes after Vulcan’s destruction. The sight of Spock and the Vulcan High Council members standing on the transporter padd with the dust of a dead planet clinging to their clothes was forever etched into his memory.

“They’re bound for Ranii,” Sulu said. “If we do what we came here for, we can get him out, too.”

“Yes. If we succeed,” Chekov said. Despite their relative success so far, he was far from confident that the three of them could continue to maintain this façade. Sulu seemed to be assimilating well, and Chekov thought he could hold out doing this for long enough to complete the mission, but McCoy seemed agitated far beyond the everyday gruffness Chekov had come to expect of him. “I could tell when she was talking about Vulcan, how upset Len was.”

“We were all upset. I don’t think Lady Mihran took it for what it was.”

“Hikaru.” He sat up and pulled his legs in for warmth. “I am not sure Len can do this. He feels things so much. He looked so angry when she touched me--”

“Shut up.”

Chekov blinked at him. “What?”

Sulu sat up quickly, and looked Chekov directly in the eye. “Shut. Up. If McCoy says he can do this, he can do this. You didn’t see him, when you were gone. He held it together, and he helped me hold it together. He’s stronger than you think.”

“Yes.” Chekov swallowed hard. “Yes, of course. I apologize. I only mean that I do not want him to do anything he does not want to do because of me. He has endured enough.”

“Right. Okay.” Sulu wrapped an arm around Chekov and pulled him into a brief hug. “He can do this, Pavel. He’s a good officer. Give him some credit.”

“Alright.” Chekov felt on firmer ground already knowing that Sulu didn’t share his doubts. “What do you think she wanted to talk to him about?”

“There’s no use in speculating until he gets back,” Sulu shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to talk to him about trading. She did seem pretty interested in you.”

“Can you…” Chekov shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Can you tell me what he was like, after I disappeared? I never ask about this, because I know it must be upsetting to remember. You were there. Can you tell me?”

Sulu nodded slowly, and settled himself on the bed, as if for a long story. “He drank more than even I did. It actually made me happy to see someone as miserable as I was, and know it was the same thing eating at us. Kirk asked him to come talk to me. I thought if one more person told me that it would be okay, or that it wasn’t my fault, or that time would dull the pain, I’d have to hit him. But he didn’t say any of that. We traded stories about you.”

“What stories? Something embarrassing, I hope.”

“No,” Sulu said with a raised eyebrow. “What embarrassing stories do I know about you?”

“You know enough,” Chekov said emphatically. “The one about New Year’s Eve at the Academy, the one about the pollen on Vestin Three, the one about that misunderstanding with the farmer and that cow on shore leave our second month into the mission—”

“Alright, alright,” Sulu laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “But no, none of those. I told him about that night on Rigel II when you took me out to show me the stars.”

Chekov smiled. “I’m sorry I made you miss the veil dancers.”

“They couldn’t have been that good,” Sulu said. “Nothing’s as beautiful as the stars, anyway. I told him about your parents.”

“My parents?” Chekov leaned forward with interest. “Why would he want to know that?”

“He just wanted to know more about you. Your family’s an important part of who you are. I think he wrote to them, after Kirk made the call… You know. Telling them about your disappearance.”

“Wrote to them?” Chekov had never heard this before.

“Well, a couple months after, I comm’d your mother, just to check on her, kind of.”

“Hikaru…” Chekov’s mother had never mentioned it to him, but he knew the year he’d been presumed dead had been difficult for her. Knowing his friend had tried to help her eased a little of the guilt he felt at putting himself back in the same position. “That was kind.”

“I figured you’d do the same for me.” Sulu shrugged. “She’d met me, at least, so I think she felt more comfortable asking questions about how… How you disappeared. I tried to explain that it had been my fault, since I was leading the mission, but she wouldn’t let me blame myself.”

“She is not one for nonsense, my mother,” Chekov said, nodding sagely.

“Anyway, she said before we finished the call that I should say hello to the doctor, and thank him for writing. She said it meant a lot to know her son was so loved. I said I’d tell him, but I decided not to mention it. I thought it seemed like something he might not want me to know about.”

Chekov felt that lump of fear pushing up through his throat again, and swallowed it down. “Hikaru, if I die on this mission, you will make sure he is alright, please?”

“Pavel.” Sulu grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “You’re not going to die. Don’t you dare say it. Or think it.”

“Yes,” he said, though it wasn’t an agreement. “I wanted to tell you something. Today, when that woman touched me, you saw what happened?”

“She touched you, you acted like a well-behaved slave, just like we practiced.”

“Yes, but Hikaru…” He pulled his hand out of Sulu’s and slid off the bed to cross the tiny room.

“What?”

“It is easy for me to slip in to that thinking, like slipping underwater. This is good, because I will not make a mistake when I am in this place; I cannot help but behave like a slave. But this is bad, because I do not know if I can get to the surface again.”

Sulu looked at him as if he might be stupid. “Why do you think I insisted on coming?”

“Yes.” Chekov smiled at that. “It was good that you did. Just, please do not be alarmed when you see this. I know Len does not like seeing me that way. For that matter, I do not like being seen like this. But it is the only way we can make them believe I am truly one of their creatures. You’ll help Leonard understand?”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

“I have tried. But I mean, when we are out there.” Chekov waved his hand at the door. “I cannot be what I need to be and worry whether he will try to pull me out. You will help him, please, if he looks like he will try to stop me?”

“I told you before, Pavel. He’s stronger than he looks.”

“Yes, he is.” Chekov came back to the bed and flopped down, finally feeling some of the afternoon’s tension drain out of him. “Thank you for knocking some sense into me.”

“You’re welcome.” Sulu threw himself down beside Chekov.

“I think while we have a chance,” Chekov said, “we should sleep in the bed. Len can have an uncomfortable cot for once.”  
\--

McCoy picked at the main course, which was some sort of game bird. He wasn’t hungry in the least, but he also had no intention of getting drunk, so he had to eat something. While Mihran laid out yet another amusing anecdote about a recent trading trip, he tucked into his meal, stopping only to make appropriate sounds of interest.

At last, when dessert was being served, Mihran came to the point she’d been dancing around all night. “So, your boy.” She swirled her wine around in her glass and gave McCoy her thin smile. “He’s exotic. Terran, is he?”

“Think so. Picked him up at an auction, and you can never be sure, but his paperwork says he’s from Earth.”

“I’ve never had a Terran in my service. Is he for sale?”

“Not to you.”

“I like you. You say what you’re thinking, and that takes a rare bravery.” She fell silent for a moment while a waiter brought their dessert: some sort of fruit pastry. As soon as he was out of earshot, she leaned forward excitedly. “Now, I have a larger reason for attending the festival this year, aside from trade opportunities and pleasant company.”

“And that is?”

“Viceroy Camlich will be in attendance.”

McCoy had no idea who that might be, but anyone of rank might be a good lead on Ranii. He asked, “What’s that have to do with you?”

To his surprise, she laughed. “You’re too, too amusing. I admit, I may not look like the kind to play politics, but I have ambitions. They say that if one makes the proper offering, Camlich will issue an invitation to his private celebration on the last night of the festival.”

“Is that right?” McCoy thought he kept his own voice neutral, and tried to look bored as he picked up his own wineglass, but he listened intently. If Mihran knew what she was talking about, this was the best lead they could hope to have.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Doctor. One can’t simply buy his way into the Viceroy’s graces. Camlich can buy any kind of slave he likes, but he has exotic tastes. He likes fresh-cut rare flowers, the meat of endangered animals, and one-of-a-kind slaves. A Vulcan skilled in the bedroom arts might tempt him.”

“Good for you,” McCoy said. “So you just brought me here to boast, then?”

“Of course not.” Mihran smiled sweetly, took a dainty forkful of her dessert, and chewed thoughtfully. “One tempting morsel is too little to bargain with. To catch his interest, I need more.”

“What does this have to do with me?” McCoy asked, although he was getting a sick feeling that he might know.

“Your little slave looks very like the one he had at his feet last year, who I heard was damaged during the performance of his duties and had to be put down. A trembling Terran boy who’s managed to keep his innocent grace might be a fair pairing for my Luka, and enough to attract Camlich’s attention.”

Of course. Putting Chekov in even more danger. He stalled with, “Why is this celebration so important to you?”

“I dare say there’s no downside to having the ear of the Viceroy. Let’s just say I have ambitions of my own. The real question, is if Camlich’s celebration is important to you, Doctor.”

He took a sip of wine, and wished he had Kirk’s silver tongue. “I have ambitions of my own,” he temporized.

“Ambition means many things to many people, doctor. What reason would you have for considering my proposal?”

“You want something from me, which is enough to make a man think.”

“I should hope so.” She stood from the table and gave him a polite nod. “Go back to your slaves, doctor. We’ll speak again soon.”  
\--

Sulu packed the last of his gear into his bags, and checked McCoy’s and Chekov’s once more. All looked secure. He was more than ready to leave the stifling confines of the Septimus and be out in the open air, actually working towards their mission.

Since McCoy’s little encounter with Lady Mihran, they’d talked their strategy to death. Viceroy Camlich was almost certainly the syndicate’s representative, and if what she’d said about his private celebration was true, then getting an invitation seemed like a promising way to plant a tracking device. Of course, if someone like Lady Mihran, who clearly had more experience in these social circles, was uncertain of being included, Sulu had no idea how the three of them could hope to receive invitations.

McCoy burst into the room with a red-faced Chekov in his wake. He closed and bolted the door behind him before turning to Sulu. “The steward helped me book lodgings in Rechii. So at least we know where we’re going when we touch down. Nice and conveniently located next to the slave markets, he told me.” McCoy grabbed his bag from the floor, tossed it on the bed, and proceeded to pull out everything Sulu had carefully packed.

Sulu looked at Chekov, who still stood leaning against the door, suppressing a grin. “What’s with you?”

“I was a bad boy,” Chekov said, choking down laughter.

In his accent, with that expression, Sulu couldn’t help but laugh in response. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” McCoy grumbled. “He’s determined to kill me, is all.”

“I am only clumsy,” Chekov said with a completely unconvincing expression of innocence. “I fell against another owner as we were coming out of the drawing room, and made him spill his drink.”

“Bad slave,” said Sulu.

“Yes, well, we are lucky McCoy is such a good owner. He pulled me over to the bench by the entrance, put me over his knee, and spanked me. I believe the man I had jostled felt very appeased.”

“It’s not funny,” McCoy said. He’d found what he was looking for—a different shirt, apparently—and was shoving things back into his bag, heedless of folding them. “What if he’d demanded a harsher punishment?”

“That’s the point, silly,” Chekov said, suddenly serious. He came up behind McCoy, wrapped his arms around his waist, and held him. “When you do have to punish me more harshly, it will not seem so bad. You did exactly the right thing.”

McCoy turned around in the circle of Chekov’s arms and regarded him suspiciously. “So you’re testing me?”

“Maybe a little,” Chekov said. “But you cannot say I am an unkind teacher.”

“No, you’re not.” McCoy leaned in for a kiss.

Sulu tugged McCoy’s pack off the bed, took it over to his spot on the floor, and sat with his back to them to begin re-packing it. He’d give his friends privacy while he could; he knew there’d be little enough of it from now on.  
\--

The festival sparkled and jangled and whirled. Masters jostled through the crowd, leaving their slaves to eel through in their wake, trying not to intrude on others’ space. Ranii’s warm sun beat down mercilessly, making Chekov glad, for once, of his costume: baggy pants of a light material, and a small vest. And, of course, the collar.

He had to concentrate to keep his fingers from finding the poly-synthetic ring and stroking it for comfort. The collar had meant so much to him once. Here, under the hungry eyes of a thousand rowdy slavers, he appreciated its significance once more. No one would challenge McCoy’s hold on him while he wore this collar.

Sulu, following a step behind and glowering at every sentient creature who so much as looked at Chekov, served as an additional deterrent.

They’d discussed the plan before departing the lodgings McCoy had secured; Chekov’s feigned mutism put him at a distinct disadvantage in situations like these, when he wished he could impart surreptitious instructions.

This morning they only needed to see and be seen. Other masters were here to trade slaves or buy them in the grand auction. Some masters would enter their slaves in contests of skill: dancing, music, or exhibition bouts of wrestling. Luck willing, they wouldn’t be participating in any of that. Rumors in the city were that Viceroy Camlich had arrived this morning, and might be at the festival, and their plan was to seek him out.

“Hotter than an August afternoon in Georgia.” McCoy pulled at the long sleeve of his jacket. “I thought this place was supposed to be temperate.”

“Would you rather be half naked?” Sulu muttered. His metal collar, inscribed with the insignia of the guardsmen, glinted in the sun. He wore no shirt at all, the better to display the hilt of the collapsible sword in the sheath at his belt. Aside from that, he wore only tight-fitting grey breeches and high boots. Compared to the splendor and bustle around them, McCoy’s companions looked downright drab.

“Camlich will be at the contests, right?” McCoy whispered, barely audible above the buzz of the crowd. “Or inspecting the pens?”

Chekov shook his head. He wove through the crowd, carefully planning the route so that McCoy and Sulu could easily follow. They arrived at the edge of a large, gated area with gaily colored tents clustered about it. From inside came the buzz of an amplified sound system.

They stood in line at the gate, where a security guard scanned them with some sort of hand-held weapons detector. He looked at Sulu’s sword, then at the insignia on his collar, rolled his eyes, and waved him through. Once they passed the gate, they were swallowed up in a teeming crowd pressing ever closer to the stage at the far end of the enclosure.

“The auction,” McCoy breathed.

Indeed, this could be nothing but Ranii’s grand festival auction. Chekov hadn’t had much time to examine the scenery when he was being auctioned at Bussar, but he remembered the smell of unwashed lifeforms and fear, the monotonous drone of the auctioneer’s patter, the sharp, electronic buzz of bidding tokens lighting up the sensor net. This auction was three times larger at least. Lifeforms of all colors and varieties, humanoid and not, jockeyed for position closer to the action.

“Come on.” McCoy pushed through the throng to a less-crowded spot behind a large post. “Stay,” he told Sulu, and wove his way back through the crowd.

Chekov exchanged puzzled glances with Sulu, but when McCoy came back with a bidding token, he understood. If they needed a reason to be seen here, bidding was it.

The auctioneer stood on a long stage at the front of the gated area, but to the side was a smaller platform with a raised chair in the center. In it sat a figure in elaborate robes, flanked by four burly, lizard-like guards, possibly Gorn. He watched the auction through half-closed eyes while a kneeling slave cooled him with a woven fan.

“The Viceroy, I presume,” McCoy muttered.

“Seems likely,” Sulu agreed.

As the next lot of slaves was marched out, the Viceroy raised a hand and pointed to one of the slaves: a young Deltan male in loose white pants. The crowd cheered, and the guards dragged the unfortunate man out of line and pushed him down to kneel in front of Camlich. “This one I take as tribute to the syndicate,” he intoned. Chekov had expected a raspy, unpleasant sound from this man, but instead his voice was strong, smooth, and almost musical. “Give me the mark.”

One of the attendants pulled a long metal pole out of a brazier at the edge of the platform. A brand. Chekov unconsciously hid himself further behind Sulu. He’d never been branded while he was a slave, but he’d been threatened with it, and he’d watched others be branded.

“You don’t have to watch this,” Sulu muttered, but Chekov couldn’t drag his eyes away.

Two guards held down the struggling Deltan. Camlich put his boot across the back of the man’s neck and pressed the circle of the brand into his unprotected back, over the right shoulder blade. The slave’s howl, echoing across the auction grounds, was soon drown out by the cheers of the excited crowd. Camlich handed the brand off to his attendant and resumed his seat. He examined his nails idly, as if what he’d done was another mundane chore to be endured.

Chekov turned away, not wanting to see any more of Camlich’s displays of power. McCoy watched the stage, Sulu watched Chekov, and Chekov watched the slaves around them. The slaves here were much the same as the ones he’d known when he’d been one of them. If anything, there was wider variety here, and more owners with multiple slaves. It made sense, Chekov supposed, if this was a larger trading hub. He wondered, with a kind of sick feeling, exactly how many slaves would be bought and sold here during the festival.

“Doctor? Doctor Annidar, I thought I recognized you!” Lady Mihran appeared out of the crowd in a low-cut, bright yellow dress that wove around her like some sort of squirming sea creature. Luka followed in her wake, eyes downcast and somber as ever, though now covered only by a tight pair of pants that left nothing to the imagination.

“Lady. A pleasant surprise.” McCoy kissed her hand.

“Thank you.” She turned her attention to Chekov, and ruffled a hand through his curls. “Your boy is looking delicious today. I see you’re all enjoying the pleasures of the festival.”

“I suppose.” McCoy nodded toward the auction. “Though I haven’t seen anything I can’t live without.”

“Oh no.” She tossed her head and laughed. “Nor will you. The trading of all the really special kinds goes on behind closed doors. Invitation-only auctions, private traders, that sort of thing. That’s where I’ll make my acquisitions, anyway.”

“Of course,” McCoy said.

“In any case, who could stand to be out in this heat all day? It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

“Nothing’s unbearable.”

She laughed again. “I suppose not. Still, I’m not one for enduring discomfort when I don’t have to. If you’ve had enough of this cattle call, why don’t you join me for dinner? There’s a lovely place near my inn that serves local cuisine. Very light, very fresh.”

“Why not? I’m always happy to learn more about the local culture.”  
\--

After dinner had been cleared away and the wine served, Lady Mihran dismissed the waiter and gave McCoy a significant look. “Do you object to sending the slaves for a little walk? Surely your man there can be relied upon to keep them out of trouble.”

“My man can be relied upon for a great many things.”

“Indeed.” She gave Sulu with a dark, unreadable glance. “Run along, boys. Luka, why don’t you show them the public water garden? It is lovely in the summer.”

When they’d gone, she came right to her point. “I wondered if you’d had any time to consider my proposal.”

“We’ve only just arrived,” he said, and sipped his wine. “I’m not looking to rush into anything.”

“Hm.” She sipped her own wine and narrowed her eyes at him. “I can respect caution, to a point. But surely you can see how highly Camlich is regarded here. You’d do well to earn his attention.”

“And what’s so special about Camlich’s attention?”

“Just good business, doctor. He serves as a hub for difficult-to-find slaves. The syndicate has a vested interest in enticing customers to use their services over those of their competitors. Little extras like Camlich are how they earn loyalty; he acquires oddities. But he grows weary of the chase. You see how today’s work bored him. Soon he will retire to some remote pleasure planet with a few young beauties and live out his days squandering his fortune on wine. They will not let him go easily until he finds a successor.”

“So?”

“So?” She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to come to the correct conclusion. McCoy waited her out. At least, she sighed in exasperation and said, “So I will be that successor. I am already as skilled as he at acquiring curiosities.”

“Why should any of this concern me? I have no interest in politics. Or in your business, for that matter.”

“Because when I have become one of the most powerful people in the syndicate, I will remember those who have helped me,” she said intently. “I will also remember those who failed to do so.”

“I have exactly two slaves in my possession, and neither is for sale.”

“Please, doctor,” she laughed. “Everything is for sale.”

“Terran slaves are common enough. I’m not buying that he has some sentimental value. So tell me why my slave is so valuable, and I’ll consider it.”

“He has no value except that Camlich is searching for one matching his description.”

“Come on, Lady. I saw half a dozen skinny blond Terran boys at the auction today.”

“His value is not in what he looks like, but what he is.”

“What is he?”

“Why doctor, you’d have me give my whole game away for nothing in return.”

“Makes no nevermind to me. You have nothing I want.” He pushed out his chair.

“Money,” she said quickly. “You settle for two slaves and run-down cabin on a common-class cruiser, or at your rat trap of an inn when you deserve so much more.”

“I have money enough.”

“Then what is it your heart desires?”

McCoy considered carefully. If Mihran truly did have influence, he might be able to talk his way into an invitation to Camlich’s party. The sooner they had the chance to plant the tracking devices, the sooner he could get Chekov and Sulu out of here. That is, if he could avoid giving too much away.

“What I _want_ is to practice my craft. When you serve tyrants, the winds of political change can put you out on your ass, lucky to escape with your life. But a businessman is smart. He’s not a fanatic. He won’t bite the hand that heals him. A doctor who knows how to counteract poisons and keeps his mouth shut can be an asset. You figure the syndicate has a need for a man like that?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you had the stomach to work with this lot.” Mihran leaned back in her chair and regarded him thoughtfully. “They may be businessmen, but they make as many enemies as politicians.”

“All the more reason to have a doctor around, in case of emergency.” He said, and drained his glass. “I’ve told you what I want. Now it’s your turn. What’s so special about my slave?”

“Of course this is only rumor and conjecture.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “They say the Viceroy looking for a slave with a particular background. Trouble is, the slave doesn’t know who he is. Apparently he was acquired and trained by an Usite band. Brilliantly efficient at their job, aren’t they?”

“Right. Get to the point.”

“Well they say, and of course I can’t confirm this, but they say that before the Usites acquired him, and this is the really interesting part, they say that this slave used to be…” She looked around the room, as if to check that they were alone, then whispered theatrically, “They say he used to be a Starfleet Officer.”

A cold, creeping dread settled into McCoy’s bones, but he said, lightly enough, “How could they possibly know that, if he’s memory’s addled?”

“Records of sale from his collar, of course. But can you imagine how many masters would be willing to pay a fortune to have a real Starfleet officer kneel for them? The Federation is a thorn in all our sides; they’d line up for a chance at him.” She poured herself another glass of wine, and cocked her head to the side, looking thoughtful. “Camlich would do better to send him to a brothel. They’d pay a handsome price for a night of taking out their frustrations on a Starfleet whore, wouldn’t they?”

“I can imagine.” McCoy’s mind chased itself in panicked circles. “I see why Camlich would be interested.”

“A simple examination of your boy’s records would bring out the truth of it. Where did you say you acquired him?”

“I didn’t say, and I’m not likely to,” McCoy said crisply.

Sulu appeared at the doorway with his two charges in tow. He and Chekov stayed next to the door, but Luka came in and immediately took his place at Mihran’s feet.

McCoy rose. “Thank you for dinner. You’ve given me a lot to consider.”

“Of course. Let’s talk again tomorrow, before the entertainments, shall we? We wouldn’t want to pass up a mutually beneficial opportunity.” From a fold in her dress, she drew out a small electronic chit that showed the insignia of an inn, and handed it to him. “Besides, since you’ve never been to the festival, I’d be delighted to show you some of the sights.”

“Charmed.” He kissed her extended hand, and resisted the urge to wipe his mouth. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, doctor.”  
\--

Chekov could see the tenseness in McCoy as soon as he returned with Sulu and Luka. After taking abrupt leave of the Lady Mihran, the short, silent walk back to their own inn felt like an eternity.

As soon as he locked the door to their chambers behind them, McCoy pulled them together. “We can’t stay here. They know.”

“Who knows? Knows what?” Sulu asked.

“Mihran suspects you’re a Starfleet officer, Chekov.”

“Knows or suspects?” Sulu pressed. “And how? And why would she tell you?”

“Listen, she thinks you’re a mind-wiped Starfleet officer. Like you used to be.”

“So she doesn’t know why we’re here,” Chekov said slowly.

“No, but she knows there’s a mind-wiped Starfleet officer matching your description, and if she checks the record on your collar, she’ll know it’s you,” McCoy said, voice getting softer and more urgent as he went on.

“But wait… That is the role I am playing, yes?” Chekov said slowly. “I am supposed to be a slave who does not know who I am, and that would not change if she knew where I came from.”

“That’s why she’s interested in you. She thinks owners would pay a lot for a chance to get back at Starfleet through you.”

“Oh,” Sulu said softly. “Yeah. I imagine they would.”

Chekov thought for a moment, then shook his head. “This changes nothing.”

“Yes it does! If she gets her hands on you--”

“Len. If I get taken away, it will not matter who takes me, and what they know of my past. It will be equally bad.” He tried to say it matter-of-factly, but he caught McCoy’s stricken look and Sulu’s tightening of the jaw. “This changes nothing. Only that now we have more to bargain with than we thought, because I am much better bait.”

“You’re not bait,” McCoy snapped.

“Yes, I am.” Chekov backed away from their little circle and flung his arms out. “Very good bait, because Mihran is interested, and believes Camlich will be interested. We have a bargaining chip.”

“Well, selling you to Camlich isn’t an option,” Sulu said, “So how can we turn this to our advantage?”

“Camlich seems to be the syndicate’s voice here,” Chekov said. “If we can plant a tracking device on his ship, the Enterprise will be able to follow the signal back to his base. We only need a way to plant the tracking device.”

“Can’t we find out where his ship is?” McCoy asked. “Why go to all this trouble of getting into his good graces if we can go right to the source?

“Seems unlikely,” Sulu said. “I tried to ask Luka about Camlich and got an odd reaction.”

“He said the Viceroy would stay at the local governor’s palace, but said we didn’t want to go there for any reason,” Chekov said. “Then he said we should go back inside.”

“I was wondering why you weren’t gone very long.”

“Something about Camlich scares the hell out of Luka,” Sulu said. “And he’s seen the destruction of his planet followed by his own capture and enslavement, so I bet he’s not easily shaken.”

“So the three of us sneaking into the governor’s palace probably isn’t an option,” McCoy said. “That leaves, what? Getting invited to this celebration, then sneaking away to plant the device?”

“Doesn’t sound like that great a plan when you put it like that,” Sulu muttered.

“No, it doesn’t,” McCoy said with an air of “someone’s finally getting it”.

“What about the blood-borne tracking device?” Chekov said.

“What?” McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Sulu said. “The organic tracking compound Scotty gave us. You inject it into a host, the nano-technology bonds to the blood cells, and the body’s electricity is enough to boost a low-level subspace signal. Lasts for days, maybe even weeks before the white blood cells get rid of it.”

“Why don’t I remember this?”

“Because you did not sit through three weeks of regular mission briefings that included all of Mister Scott’s many ingenious suggestions,” Chekov said matter-of-factly.

“Lucky me,” said McCoy.

“How are we going to get close enough to Camlich to inject something like that, let alone without his knowing?” Sulu asked.

“He works for a ruthless slave-trading syndicate; he hasn’t gotten where he is by getting careless,” McCoy said. “He has a whole slew of wicked-looking bodyguards. You’ll never get near him with a hypospray.”

“Perhaps an assistant or attendant: someone we know will be with him on his ship?” Sulu suggested.

“That seems like a better prospect,” Chekov said. He didn’t like the risk that they might choose the wrong person, someone who wouldn’t be with Camlich at all, but he agreed that getting close enough to inject the Viceroy seemed like a long shot. “We would still need an invitation to the celebration.”

“If Lady Mihran has a plan for getting his attention, we have to try it,” Sulu said. He and Chekov turned to McCoy expectantly.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “First thing in the morning, we’ll find out what she has in mind.”  
\--

Few people were about this early in the morning, but Sulu easily found a slave in the common room of Mihran’s inn. He stopped the girl, probably an Acamarian, considering the facial tattoos, and held up the chit Mihran had given McCoy. “I’m looking for this room.”

She stared at his collar in awe, looked to the sword on his belt, then up into his face with the light of hero-worship in her eyes. “Certainly, honored one,” she said. “Right this way.”

He nodded to McCoy and Chekov, waiting in the shadows near the entrance, and together the three of them followed the slave girl upstairs and down a sunny wood-paneled hallway to a large door at the end of the row. She pointed silently to the door. Sulu nodded. “Thank you.” Then, because it seemed like the right thing to do, he put a hand to her cheek and said, “Well done.”

She gasped and stepped away quickly. Her hand came up to her face where Sulu had touched her, and she hid her smile in a quick bow before scampering off.

“What was that about?” McCoy mouthed.

Sulu shook his head; he wasn’t sure, himself. He took up his place at McCoy’s shoulder, and Chekov stood behind him. McCoy knocked.

Mihran answered the door wearing a flowing blue robe of some silky material. Her hair looked carelessly tousled, but still elegant. “Doctor Annidar! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, please.”

She flung open the door to her chambers. The room was fairly spare, save for a number of dressing trunks sitting open, their colorful contents spilling out like riotous flowers, and the bed. The monstrosity of a bed perched on carved clawed feet like a monster taking up half the room. In the center of a tangled sprawl of silky black sheets, Luka lay on his back, naked and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, watching the three of them enter with an expression too carefully blank to be real indifference.

“Luka, get us some tea,” Mihran said briskly as she began to clear off seats at the room’s small, round table. Luka slid out the bed and reached for a discarded garment on the floor. Mihran whirled around to point at him, and he froze. “Did I say you could dress? Clothes are for slaves that please me properly. Now go.”

Luka nodded wordlessly, and slunk past the three visitors toward the door. Sulu noticed a green flush high in his cheeks as he passed, but Luka studiously avoided eye contact.

“Honestly, sometimes keeping a personal attendant is more work than doing everything myself,” Mihran said to McCoy. “The rest of my stock are staying in the barracks, but it’s nice to keep Luka around to attend to my everyday needs. Even if he sometimes needs a firm hand. I notice you keep your little treasure very close.” She nodded to Chekov.

“Can you blame me?”

“Not at all.” She gestured to the now-cleared table. “Please, have a seat, Doctor.”

McCoy sat across from Mihran, and his companions arranged themselves as usual: Chekov kneeling, Sulu standing behind. Luka returned with a tray holding accoutrements for tea. He poured for both owners under Mihran’s watchful eye, added sugar to Mihran’s cup, and began to kneel.

“Luka,” she said sharply. “Aren’t you forgetting one of your duties when we have company? Honestly, you’ll have the good doctor thinking we’re barbarians.”

Luka turned to McCoy with downcast eyes. “I would like to offer you my service this morning, if you will permit it.”

Sulu thought those words coming from Luka’s mouth in that calm-and-collected, wholly logical cadence sounded especially obscene.

To his credit, McCoy sounded calm as he replied, “That’s not necessary, thank you.”

Luka released a breath he’d been holding, but Mihran looked disappointed. “Surely he can be of some use to you. I imagine your guardsman gets little enough in the way of service. Luka can attend to him. He has a very talented mouth, you know.”

“My property gets rewarded at my pleasure, Lady. I know you understand the importance of strict discipline.”

“Yes.” She leaned back in her chair and regarded him thoughtfully. “But until now I wasn’t certain that you did.” She snapped her fingers, and Luka knelt quickly by her side. “So, Doctor, what brings you visiting this morning?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about Camlich. I assume you have some plan for attracting the Viceroy’s attention.”

“I do.” She took a demure sip of her tea.

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

She smiled primly, and set her cup down at a precise angle before answering. “Camlich will be at the festival again today, receiving tribute, seeing the sights. He also spends a few hours of the day arbitrating disputes between slave owners.”

“What kind of disputes?”

“Usually over trade contracts, payment disputes, other such boring affairs. Occasionally, the topic of dispute is the services of a slave.”

“So how will this help us?”

“We can contrive a quarrel between the two of us so that he’ll catch sight of your Pasha. That should be enough to at least get his attention.” She glanced fondly at Chekov’s kneeling form. “If he needs more of a nudge, I can have Luka perform in one of the sporting contests he’ll watch this afternoon. Did you know that all Vulcan men are trained in hand-to-hand combat? It has something to do with a quaint mating ritual of their kind. In any case, my Luka is an excellent wrestler.” She carded a hand through his hair while he continued to stare at the floor.

“Right,” McCoy said. His mouth had a bitter taste that the tea didn’t remove. “Vulcan training is rumored to be pretty extensive.”

“Yes. But honestly, doctor, I think your boy will be enough to interest him.”

McCoy looked at Chekov, who had remained obediently still and silent through the whole exchange. “He might be, at that.”  



	5. Chapter 5

The auction wouldn’t start for another hour, so Camlich was hearing his cases from the dais where he’d sat for the auction the day before. McCoy tried not to fidget as two Lissepian merchants argued back and forth about exclusive trading rights to a slave market on some distant moon. Beside him, Sulu stood as still as a stone, ignoring the dust and the heat. Behind him, Chekov leaned against Sulu’s shoulder, eyes closed and drowsing.

Lady Mihran seemed to be ignoring the two Lissepians and focusing all her attention on Viceroy Camlich, who, sitting flanked by four burly bodyguards, looked bored. Up close, McCoy still couldn’t determine Camlich’s species. He looked humanoid, but his face displayed confusing whorl patterns of bone ridges and dark markings atop the red-tinged skin. Either could have been artificial: many cultures practiced body modification, and anyone rich and powerful as Camlich certainly had the means to alter his appearance at will. For all McCoy knew, he could be a member of some telepathic race, and reading McCoy’s mind right now. Not a comforting thought. McCoy thought back to what Spock had tried to teach him about blocking mental intrusion. He was supposed to picture a solid wall surrounding his thoughts, but then he started wondering whether he needed to picture a ceiling, and a floor, and the whole exercise started to feel futile.

At last the Lissepians cleared away, and one of Camlich’s attendants stepped forward. “Next disputants. Lady Excelsia Mihran and Doctor Leonard Annidar. Approach and speak.”

Mihran stepped up a respectful distance in front of Camlich’s seat-cum-throne, squared her shoulders, and spoke. “While lodging aboard a cruiser bound for this festival, one of Doctor Annidar’s slaves took his pleasure with one of my own. In recompense, I asked for a night with this slave, a reasonable request that Doctor Annidar refused.”

McCoy took up his position next to her. They hadn’t discussed the details of the dispute, but what she was saying seemed straightforward enough. If a snake ever did anything straightforwardly. “The boy belongs to me. I don’t see why I should share him because she can’t instill enough discipline in her creatures to prevent them from partaking against her orders.”

“Let me see the slave in question,” Camlich said.

McCoy beckoned. Chekov stepped up onto the platform, went right to the center, in front of the Viceroy’s seat, and knelt gracefully. “Look at me, boy.” Chekov turned his eyes up, and Camlich sucked in quick breath. His guards looked at each other, then quickly returned to staring straight ahead, but McCoy caught the meaning: Camlich had seen something he liked.

“Boy,” Camlich said. “Did it happen as they say?”

Chekov opened his mouth, closed it, and looked helplessly at McCoy.

“Answer me, slave,” Camlich said dangerously.

“He can’t speak, sir,” McCoy said.

Camlich sighed. “This is your doing, I suppose, Doctor?”

“A previous owner, Viceroy.”

“Well.” Camlich stood, flicking out his robes to fall behind him. “Mihran, I can see why you’d be anxious for a taste of the good Doctor’s property. But he’s right: your carelessness with your property doesn’t entitle you to recompense from him. However, Doctor, your slave must learn better discipline. I hereby sentence him to twenty lashes.”

Camlich’s attendants nodded. One left the platform, and the other went to pull Chekov to his feet. At the side of the platform, Sulu tensed, but McCoy held up his hand sharply, warning him not to intervene. McCoy glanced at Mihran, who positively glowed. She’d planned this from the beginning, damn her.

McCoy stepped forward. “Viceroy.” Camlich nodded to him. “As it was my failing of discipline that led to the infraction, I respectfully request to be the one to administer the punishment.”

Camlich arched an eyebrow, and studied McCoy intently. “Very well. Attendant!” One of Camlich’s uniformed guards had returned holding a wicked-looking whip. “Please instruct the doctor in the use of the whip. He’ll be administering the lashes.”

McCoy tried to focus on the attendant as he unwound the whip and demonstrated its use against the wooden slats at the back of the platform. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other attendant stripping Chekov of his clothes. He forced himself to look away, and to listen to the instructions. When the guard handed him the whip, he let it fall behind him, then swung his arm up and tried to crack it as the guard had done. His first two attempts fell flat, but on the third, the whip swung in a graceful arc, sang in the air, and cracked with an echo that rolled around the yard.

“Begin, Doctor,” Camlich said.

McCoy walked back out onto the platform. They’d tied Chekov to a wide wooden x and left him bound spread-eagled, presenting his back to McCoy. Sensing the prospect of violence, some of the milling crowd waiting for the auction had come to gather at the edge of the platform.

McCoy stopped a few yards away from the wooden x, and stood with feet apart. With a silent plea for Chekov’s forgiveness, he began. The first blow went a bit wild, and slashed across Chekov’s back in a long, diagonal stripe. Chekov jerked in his bonds, but made no sound. McCoy realized Chekov couldn’t scream. Not _couldn’t_ , but _mustn’t_ , since he was supposed to be mute. He had to get this over as quickly as possible, before Chekov broke.

McCoy took a deep breath to steady himself before the next blow. He pulled the whip back, swung his arm forward, then down, and let the whip fly with a delicate flick of his wrist. The blow landed precisely along the top of Chekov’s back. Better. McCoy tried again, and managed to land another stripe directly below the second. Just like the concentration required for a difficult surgery, the movement came naturally once he placed himself in the proper frame of mind. He set up a steady rhythm, hoping that the monotony would allow Chekov to endure the pain long enough.

His world narrowed to the rise and fall of his arm, the sight of the whip singing through the air, and the movement of muscle under skin as Chekov shuddered at each blow. The feel of the lash in his hand was soothing, almost seductive. He wasn’t counting, simply watching the red stripes appear across Chekov’s pale skin like a magic trick. Then Camlich’s deep voice broke through his concentration with, “Enough.”

McCoy let his arm drop, suddenly feeling the strain in it. An attendant took the whip away before he could drop it.

Camlich turned to Mihran, who stood beside his seat, eyes fixed hungrily on Chekov. “Are you satisfied with the punishment, Lady?”

“Yes, Viceroy. It was… sufficient.”

“Good.” He waved his hand and an attendant jumped to untie Chekov. Sulu darted in from the side of the platform to support Chekov as they released him.

“Doctor Annidar.” Camlich beckoned him closer, so once again McCoy tore his eyes away from Chekov and stepped up to the Viceroy. “Doctor, I appreciate a man who can take responsibility for his slaves as you have done today. He’s truly a lovely specimen.”

“Thank you,” McCoy said. He knew that a real diplomat would have found something more flattering or clever to say, but all he wanted to do was run to Chekov and see what damage he’d done.

“I’d like to invite you to join me for a celebration tomorrow at the conclusion of the festival.”

“It would be an honor, Viceroy.”

“Be sure to bring your boy, there. He’s provided such lovely entertainment this morning.”

“Of course.”

“Lady Mihran, I trust you’ll join us as well.”

“I’d be delighted, Viceroy.”

“Fine. You’re both dismissed.”

McCoy bowed slightly, then turned and managed not to run off the platform. He could see that Sulu had gotten Chekov dressed and was holding him up at the bottom of the stairs. Mihran gave him a nod and a delighted smile as he passed, and he managed to avoid spitting in her face.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sulu whispered, “Keep moving. Inn.”

As much as he wanted to, McCoy couldn’t just hold Chekov in his arms and soothe him, fix him. It had never hurt more to play the aloof owner. As soon as they made it clear of the festival tents and onto a wider street, McCoy flagged down one of the slave-drawn open rickshaws, and climbed inside.

Sulu lifted Chekov up and carried him bodily into the cart to sit across from McCoy. When he sat, Chekov stayed in his lap, clinging to him. Sulu fixed his eyes on a spot somewhere on the rickshaw’s floor, but McCoy could only stare at the bright-red weals marring the fair skin all across Chekov’s back. A few bled sluggishly. McCoy’s fingers itched for his med kit.

“It’s going to be alright,” he whispered. He reached across to touch Chekov’s arm.

Chekov started and jerked away, then curled tighter against Sulu’s shoulder. Sulu shot McCoy a warning look. McCoy shrank back in his seat, and they passed the rest of the journey to the inn in stony silence.  
\--

Chekov wasn’t sure where he was. He was lying on something soft, so probably not in the slave barracks. He remembered he’d done something bad, something worthy of punishment. He didn’t think Master had been angry, but he remembered pain.

A cool hand touched his back and set waves of pain shooting through him. He gasped, and bit his lip. The whip. He remembered the whip, one of his least favorite things, because being tied meant he couldn’t see when the next blow was coming.

The hand on his back traced over one of his wounds, rubbing in something that felt blessedly cool and numbing.

Above him, a low, familiar voice spoke. “Get the hypospray out of my bag. He needs a painkiller. It’s the one on the left. No, give me that.”

The hands went away, and then he felt something press against his neck. He heard a mechanical hiss and felt a pinch. “There. That should feel better in a minute.”

Already the fiery pain was beginning to wane as Chekov was buoyed by a floaty, faraway feeling.

“Will it scar?” another voice asked. Chekov wondered idly if that was a trader, and if he was going to be sold. He again tried to remember what he’d done to arouse his master’s wrath.

“No. No, I only broke the skin in a few places. In a few hours I can go over it with the dermal regenerator, that should help. It’s shock I’m worried about now. Can you get us some water? He’s going to need fluids.”

“Fine.”

“Sulu, I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

The door opened and closed, leaving Chekov alone with his master again. Now that his back didn’t hurt quite as badly, he could think again. He remembered watching his master take the whip. He remembered being tied, and hearing the crack of the whip before the feeling the slice of it against his skin. But he couldn’t remember what he’d done. Now his master was attending to him, when he should be attending his master.

Chekov struggled to pull himself up. He stumbled when he came down off the bed, which was higher than he thought, but he managed to land on his feet.

“Chekov!” Master turned from the table where he’d been searching through a bag. He dropped whatever he’d been holding and headed quickly towards him, arms outstretched. “Whoa, wait. You need to—”

Chekov dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor. He knew Master was angry with him, that he’d done something to deserve the whip. He only hoped he could show how sorry he was, and avoid another punishment.

“No. Chekov.” His master dropped to the floor beside him, and tried to pull him up. Chekov: the name didn’t sound right to him. Didn’t they call him something else? Something smaller?

“Chekov, please. It’s me. It’s Doctor McCoy. It’s Len.”

Len. The awareness of where he was—who he was—cut through his pain and confusion like a signal beacon guiding him home. “Len?” He looked at McCoy and saw him, really saw him. “Len.” He lunged forward and threw his arms around McCoy, heedless of the spikes of pain that shot down his back.

“Pavel.” McCoy settled a hand in Chekov’s hair, where he wouldn’t hurt him more, and held him close. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” Chekov whispered. “I know. I am so proud of you.”

“Don’t say that.” McCoy pulled away and grabbed Chekov’s hands to lift him. “Come on, lay down again before you pull those wounds open.”

Chekov held onto McCoy to steady himself, but didn’t lie down. “Not until I know you are not tearing yourself apart for this. I told you you might have to do this, and you did it. You made it through.”

“I shouldn’t have done it. I should have found another way,” McCoy said, looking at the floor.

“Stop it. I am alive. I am fine, and I have my favorite doctor in the whole galaxy taking care of me. At least tell me we now have Camlich’s attention?”

Sulu pushed open the door carrying a jug of water and a mug. “What are you doing up?” He gave McCoy a sharp look.

“I was confused for a moment,” Chekov said. “I did not know where I was. I am fine now.” He sat back down on the bed and allowed McCoy to help him lie down.

“You’re not fine,” Sulu said through gritted teeth. He poured a glass of water and handed it to Chekov to sip. “You have twenty-six whip marks on your back.”

“I thought Camlich said twenty,” Chekov said, craning his neck as if he could see his back.

“Well apparently math isn’t McCoy’s strong suit,” Sulu said acidly. “I thought he wasn’t going to stop. A few more strokes, and I would have gone up there to stop him.”

“Oh yes, very appropriate slave behavior,” Chekov said. He lifted his head enough to take a gulp of water and give Sulu an admonishing glance. “Let us see how much counting you are able to do next time you must whip your boyfriend in public.”

Sulu dropped his head, and the irritation seemed to bleed out of him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered in McCoy’s direction. “What did Camlich say to you, afterwards?”

“He invited us to his party.”

“What?” Chekov tried to sit up, and both Sulu and McCoy pushed him back down. “Why did you not say this before?”

“Pardon me,” McCoy said. “I was a little pre-occupied with making sure you didn’t go into shock. Which you could still do. You’ve been pretty hard on your body lately. So stay there and rest, alright?”

“Yes sir,” Chekov slurred. In fact, he was beginning to feel a little sleepy. “Was there a sedative with that pain killer?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh good,” he said. After that, he drifted.  
\--

Sulu studied the map of the city he’d gotten from a trader at the festival this morning. He didn’t read the Raniian language, but the markings seemed clear enough. “The governor’s palace is near the city center, so it must have a dedicated landing area and hanger bay. I don’t think Camlich would want to leave his transportation at another location.”

From where he lay facedown on the bed, Chekov leaned over to look. “No, that seems unlikely,” he said.

“There are a few private cargo bays around the palace, so I’ll scout those out today in case Camlich is keeping a ship at one of those. I’m sure he has a few alternate escape plans.” He looked over at Chekov, whose eyes had drifted closed again, and quietly rolled up the map.

“Am not asleep,” Chekov mumbled.

“Of course you’re not,” Sulu smiled. He sat on the floor and leaned his head back against the bed, near enough to hear Chekov’s even breathing. Everything in the room felt calm for now. Sulu was profoundly grateful McCoy had gone out. Earlier today he’d thought he might strangle the man with his bare hands for what he’d done to Chekov. He wasn’t sure where the anger had come from; he knew McCoy had only done what they’d planned, and what Chekov had insisted that he do in such a situation. Nevertheless, the need to protect Chekov had risen up in him so strongly as to overwhelm rational thought.

“You should apologize to McCoy,” Chekov said, as if he had heard Sulu’s thoughts. “He cannot afford to hesitate in such situations. You know why he had to do this.”

“I know. Intellectually I know. I just don’t like seeing you get hurt, especially when it’s my job to protect you.”

“You worry too much,” Chekov muttered.

“That’s not it,” Sulu said. Something else nagged at him beyond just a sense of duty. “When you were getting whipped on that platform, it was like I felt it. Not the pain necessarily, but the panic. I felt what you were going through.”

Chekov hung his head over the edge of the bed so he could glare at Sulu. “Oh, so now you are a telepath.”

“No, of course not!” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “This sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it.”

“I would not mention it to McCoy, if I were you.” Chekov pulled himself back onto the bed and flopped onto his pillow. “He is likely to dose you up with sedatives, as well.”

A key beeped in the door. Sulu jumped up immediately, only to see McCoy returning with his arms full of packages. “Hello.” He dropped the packages on the bed next to Chekov, then flopped down himself. “It’s still hotter than a supernova out there.”

“I sincerely doubt it is that hot,” Chekov slurred.

McCoy waved a hand at the table with the maps on it. “So, any brilliant ideas?”

“Not as such,” Sulu said. “What about you, any luck?”

“If you can call it luck.” McCoy sat up, picked up one of the packages and tossed it to Sulu. “At least we all have something to wear, now.”

“Or not wear, as the case may be,” Sulu said, as he saw the sheer garment inside the package he’d been thrown. “Are you serious, McCoy?”

“It’s what the proprietor said was appropriate,” McCoy bristled. “You think I like seeing the two of you dressed like this?”

“It is alright,” Chekov said. “The captain has worn many more ridiculous outfits for away missions. This is not so bad. Tell me at least you got something that will show off my back.”

“Pavel…” McCoy looked stricken, and Sulu immediately regretted contributing to the load of guilt McCoy carried. Any doubt he’d had about McCoy keeping Chekov’s best interests at heart evaporated.

“I mean it.” Chekov pushed up to a sitting position, and craned his neck in an attempt to see his back. “Camlich will want to see his handiwork.”

“I wanted to give you another round with the dermal regenerator before we go.”

Chekov shook his head. “Do not. They do not hurt much at all, and I think he will be happy to see them.”

“I really do not like this guy.” McCoy touched his fingers lightly to Chekov’s back. “They’re in no danger of scarring right now, at least. As soon as this is over, I’ll have you fixed up good as new, I promise.”

“I know.” Chekov turned his head for a kiss, and McCoy gave it to him.

“So,” Sulu said. “What else do we need to do before tonight?”

“Well.” Chekov pulled reluctantly away from McCoy. “I am the bait, so I assume all I must do is dress up and look tempting.”

“Easy enough,” McCoy muttered darkly. He sorted through the packages on the bed until he came up with two for Chekov.

“I should be allowed to carry my sword,” said Sulu, “but I doubt I can sneak anything else past those guards.”

“We should not try,” Chekov said. “We want to make sure we get in, or it is all for nothing.”

“I’ll carry the injection of that blood-borne tracking compound,” McCoy said. “It won’t be too suspicious for me to carry a small med kit, especially if I make sure there’s nothing threatening in it.”

“How do we know if we’ve found someone who’s sure to be with him?” Chekov asked. “He has so many attendants and guards, we cannot be sure who will go with him when he leaves.”

“We’ll have to play it by ear,” Sulu said. “Perhaps once we’re at the celebration, it’ll be obvious who his main companions are.”

“I don’t like that,” McCoy said. “It feels an awful lot like going in there blind.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?” Sulu asked.

“No,” McCoy said grudgingly.

“Then get your party dress on.” Sulu threw the remaining package at McCoy. “We have work to do.”  
\--

Chekov’s jangling silver chain belt was doing only a marginal job of holding up his nearly-sheer pants as he walked, but he dared not stop to adjust his outfit. McCoy walked ahead of him, following the line of other guests. He held the thin, silver chain that attached to Chekov’s collar. Sulu walked behind him, looking intimidating and seductive all at once in his tight black breeches overlaid with a sheer wrap coiled around his hips. He kept his head down, as all the other slaves were doing, and followed along.

As they approached the main ballroom, the corridor branched. Ahead of them, Chekov saw slaves parting from their masters to head down the left branch of the hallway.

“I see it,” McCoy muttered. He turned briefly to unclip the lead from Chekov’s collar and nodded to Sulu. “Be good.”

Chekov followed the stream of slaves obediently. Sulu’s strong presence at his back kept him calm. This corridor was less ornate than the promenade they’d come through on their way into the Governor’s palace. Glowing fixtures set into the wall lighted the way with none of the fanfare of the giant torches they’d passed earlier.

The hallway terminated in a circular room where a crowd of slaves gathered, eerily silent. Benches lined the stone walls. Sitting on one of these, Chekov recognized Luka: the only Vulcan in the room. Luka noticed him as well. He nodded once, then quickly looked down at the floor.

Chekov weaved his way through the crowed, ever aware of Sulu shadowing him. The others parted around him easily; each seemed uncertain of what to do other than avoid getting in anyone’s way. When at last Chekov stood before the young slave, Luka looked up at him.

“Hello,” Luka said softly. Like all the Vulcans Chekov had known, his expression remained calculatedly blank.

Chekov nodded in reply. Though he had no illusions about the impossibility of trusting one of Mihran’s slaves, he felt that there might be something to learn here. He sat down on the crude wooden bench.

To Chekov’s surprise, Luka held out his hand, palm up. Did he seek comfort? Was he attempting to gain intelligence for his mistress? Chekov pictured strong walls around his mind, thick as the stone walls of this room. Then he laid his hand in Luka’s.

Luka’s skin felt warm and dry, like the desert, Chekov thought. Luka closed his fingers tightly around Chekov’s hand. “Your mind is quiet,” Luka said. His whisper seemed faint, even in a room where no one else was speaking. “Not like the minds of the others.”

Chekov gave him a small smile as he tried to interpret that remark. He’d thought that Mihran must know of Vulcan’s mental abilities, and would have no qualms about using Luka’s to gather information or manipulate her enemies. However, he reflected, the details of Vulcan biology and culture were hardly common knowledge: even less so since the genocide. Serving on the Enterprise with Spock might have skewed his impression of how much others knew about Vulcans. If only he could question Luka, he felt sure he could extract some much-needed information

“You’re the only Vulcan slave I’ve ever seen.” Sulu stood towering over them both. Chekov again silently blessed his insistence on coming on this mission. Sulu kept one hand on his sword, and scanned the room as he spoke. “Your mistress must value your skills.”

“I…” Luka dropped his eyes, almost as if he were speaking to a master. “I have been trained extensively in the past three years.”

“Hm.” Sulu gave a sharp look to the skinny slave girl sitting on Luka’s other side, and she cleared off quickly. Sulu sat. “I knew a Vulcan once. He had some unusual abilities.”

Luka’s hand curled tighter around Chekov’s, and Chekov concentrated on keeping his image of a wall intact.

“I know only what my trainers have taught me,” Luka said. His expression remained painstakingly blank, but Chekov didn’t miss the quaver in his voice.

“I remember when my masters first found out I’d lied to them about my ability with a blade.” Sulu fingered his sword hilt. “The punishment was severe.”

“I’ve never lied.” Luka’s voice was little more than a whisper.

Chekov leaned marginally closer to the Vulcan, and had his hand gripped tightly in return. If Luka had been using his touch telepathy at Mihran’s orders, than he was also an excellent actor.

“Well then. I suppose you’re lucky that your mistress is not more familiar with your race.” Sulu leaned back casually against the wall.

Luka relaxed a fraction, but not entirely, until Sulu spoke to change the subject.

“Will they keep us in here for the whole feast?” Sulu asked.

Luka shook his head, and made one failed attempt to speak before he could get an answer out. “They’ll assign tasks,” he said. “There’s usually a housekeeper or a slave captain in charge of assignments.”

Sure enough, a broad-shouldered Osaarian woman came striding through an archway on the far side of the room. “Attention, slaves,” she bellowed, though there was no conversation to interrupt. “You are honored to serve at his lordship the Viceroy’s festival celebration. In this household, we do not tolerate laziness, sloppiness, or disobedience. You can expect swift punishment for any failure.”

Chekov winced as Luka’s hand squeezed his with an excess of Vulcan strength.

“Now. I need six slaves skilled in dancing.” A few stepped forward, and a few tentatively raised their hands. The housekeeper pulled them together and sent them through the archway behind her. As they left the room, a slave bearing a tray handed each a small cup. The slaves drank what they were given on put the cup back on the tray as they passed. “Six who can play instruments,” the housekeeper bellowed.

Luka hissed at Chekov, “We must volunteer for something, quickly. Often at this kind of celebration, they will assign some slaves to service guests who have not brought their own attendants.”

“You.” The housekeeper could move much faster than her bulk would suggest; she appeared suddenly in front of the three conspirators. “Did you speak out of turn?” she asked Chekov.

Sulu stood and squared his shoulders. “He did not speak at all.”

The housekeeper turned her attention to Sulu. Her eyes went first to his sword, then to the mark on his collar. She rolled her eyes in apparent disgust. “I have no use for you,” she said. “Go attend your master.” She pointed to the archway.

Sulu didn’t move. “My charges,” he said, with a look at Luka and Chekov. Luka raised an eyebrow in a gesture so Spock-like that Chekov almost smiled. He was apparently unaccustomed to other slaves doing favors for him.

She scowled at them. “They can serve at the table.” At Sulu’s dark look, she said. “Serve food, mother hen. Food, and nothing more.” She turned her glare on the two seated slaves. “Go, wretches,” she said, and pointed to the archway once more.

“Come,” Sulu said. Luka and Chekov followed him across the room with all due haste. At the exit archway, the slave with the tray handed them cups. The housekeeper stood watching eagerly to see if Sulu would challenge her again. When Sulu hesitated with the cup in his hand, she said, “All the lord’s guests drink of his wine.”

“My vows forbid it,” Sulu said.

With a scowl, she turned to Chekov and Luka. Luka quickly gulped down his drink and replaced the cup on the tray. Chekov looked down at his portion: a dark red liquid with a bitter smell. Camlich would have no interest in poisoning his slaves. This liquid was likely an aphrodisiac mean to make the slaves more pliant and enliven the proceedings. Perhaps it would even allow Chekov to relax. With an apologetic look at Sulu, Chekov drank his cup to the dregs.  
\--

McCoy felt no surprise at all to be seated next to Lady Mihran at the feast. “Isn’t this lovely?” she said as she lowered herself gracefully onto her cushion next to the low table. “And aren’t you pleased now that we were able to assist each other?”

“Yes, this is certainly… an experience.” Slaves kept emerging from a stone corridor at the far end of the hall, and McCoy kept an eye out for his friends returning. A group of barely-clothed slaves carrying flutes and lyres came out, arranged themselves on the stage, and began to play softly.

Shortly thereafter, Sulu emerged from the corridor, with Chekov and the Vulcan slave trailing him. They dodged through the crowd until they reached the table. Chekov knelt immediately next to McCoy, and McCoy laid a comforting hand on the back of his neck.

When Luka knelt next to Mihran, she glared at him. “What are you doing back here?”

“I am to serve you during the feast,” he said softly.

“Didn’t I tell you to get an assignment that would bring you Camlich’s attention?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“Yes, mistress.” Luka’s eyes flicked to Sulu, and Mihran spun to look at him.

Sulu merely stared out over the room, ignoring her.

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Doctor Annidar, you are really a most amusing companion.” There was no amusement in her voice. She briskly clipped a black metal lead-line to the front of Luka’s collar. “Stay, Luka. We’ll see what comes of this.”

The musicians switched to a more stately tune, and the Viceroy made his entrance. All the owners at the table stood, and the slaves remained kneeling as the Viceroy entered and took his seat at the head of the table. A servant handed him a full wine glass, and when he raised it, the musicians stopped their playing. “To the completion of another successful festival.”

“To the festival,” the assembled crowd answered. All raised their glasses and drank. McCoy held his glass to his lips, but didn’t drink anything. Now that he’d gotten a better look at Luka, and at Chekov, they both looked glassy-eyed, possibly drugged. He would prefer to avoid a similar impairment, if he could.

The musicians struck up again, and as slaves began to distribute food, a group of dancers clad only in gauzy veils began to dance. They wove complicated acrobatic patterns around each other, springing on their hands and landing gracefully, coming together and spinning apart again in a beautiful kaleidoscope of color. Even the other slaves in the room paused in their duties, or risked looking up to take in the fascinating display.

Then, as one dancer turned on his hands, another lurched sideways ungracefully and fell to the ground, disrupting the pattern. The music stuttered for a moment, and then charged on, a bit faster and louder. The other dancers, too, continued their movements with frantic precision as the girl—a small and painfully thin Rutian—tried to regain her footing. At last the music ended with a flourish. The dancers posed, and the girl fit himself into their ranks again. No one applauded, or even spoke.

“Bring her here,” Camlich said evenly.

One of the six guards around him moved to pull her out of the line and push her to the ground before Camlich.

She had lovely red hair with the Rutian’s distinctive dark streak running through it. Her dark eyes would have been quite beautiful, if they hadn’t been brimming with tears.

“You know I do not tolerate failure from those I own.”

She nodded.

“Guard, give me your knife.” Camlich took the proffered knife, and dragged the girl to him by her hair. Frozen with fear, she did not struggle, only closed her eyes as he cut down.

McCoy, sure he was about to witness murder, closed his eyes, but when he heard a pained squeal, he opened his eyes to see the girl collapsed on the floor, wide-eyed. Camlich held the handful of tresses he’d cut from her. He stood, and motioned his guard over. “She’s of no use to me. Take her out to the guardhouse, and let them amuse themselves with her.”

She moaned in fear, but the cheering of the guards present covered up the sound almost immediately. As the guard dragged her out, the musicians struck up a merry tune, and the remaining dancers scampered back the way they’d come.

“Now there’s a man who understands strict discipline, wouldn’t you say?” Her cheer restored, Mihran gave him a charming smile.

McCoy flashed his teeth in return, and hoped it looked enough like agreement to pass muster. Luckily, the serving slaves had made it down to their end of the table with food, and their dishing up of plates saved McCoy from having to continue the conversation.

One of the other servers handed Chekov a jug of wine as he hurried by. Chekov leaned over the place setting to refill McCoy’s wine cup. McCoy noted his eyes: pupils definitely more dilated than five minutes ago.

After that display from Camlich, McCoy longed for some excuse to haul Chekov and Sulu out of here and retreat to their rooms, but considering how much trouble they’d gone to to get an invitation to this infernal event, he thought Chekov might frown on that. Still, his fingers itched for a medical scanner; he knew they’d probably only dosed the slaves with a mild aphrodisiac—the local masters’ idea of making sure everyone enjoyed themselves—but McCoy didn’t trust these homemade concoctions one bit.

Sulu must have escaped being dosed somehow. He stood sentinel at McCoy’s shoulder, refusing any offered refreshment and keeping an eagle eye on Chekov. McCoy picked at his own food, trying to eat and drink as little as possible, and only when his seat-mates looked his way. That tactic relieved him of most of the conversational burden, and allowed him to observe the proceedings. Halfway through the feast, Lady Mihran, apparently losing faith in McCoy’s sense of ambition, excused herself and took Luka to scout out a seat closer to the head of the table.

Camlich lorded over the room from his throne-like chair. As the evening wore on, McCoy observed him, looking for evidence of weakness, some chance they could get close to him to deploy their tracking agent. Camlich wore a dark blue robe of some silky material, dark pants, boots, and a white shirt unbuttoned to the waist. A silver medal denoting his rank hung from a thin chain around his neck. All in all, his outfit wasn’t much different from those of a few of the slaves, except perhaps for the curved dagger on his waist: the one he’d used to threaten that slave girl. However, no one would have mistaken him for a slave; he had a small group of his own slaves fawning over him at all times. One slave stood holding a plate of food, another offered up a goblet of wine, and a third simply lay with his head in Camlich’s lap.

Revelers came to speak to him with eyes lowered, kneeling and groveling with gross obsequiousness. But throughout the evening, Camlich spoke to no one who he looked at with anything other than disdain and boredom. Certainly no trusted advisors or tight allies who might be accompanying him tomorrow.

Right after dessert was served, a bare-chested slave girl came scuttling to McCoy’s side and knelt. When she failed to speak, McCoy snapped, “What?”

“Lord Camlich requests that you retire with him to his chambers for a private gathering.”

“For what?”

The slave didn’t look up, but McCoy noticed the way she shrank away. “Is that the message you wish me to relay?”

“No.” McCoy clenched his jaw. He had no wish to play political games; that was Kirk’s forte, not his. However, this might be their best chance to find a way to plant the tracking device, and he couldn’t pass it up. “I’d be delighted.”

“Excellent. If you and your attendants will follow me, I’ll convey you to his chambers.”  
\--

The room where the slave led them seemed to be a library, or perhaps a gallery. A balcony ringed the room at the level above them, and shelves holding small trinkets lined the walls for several stories above that. The small room buzzed with conversation, and wispy strains of music drift out of an alcove where three slaves sat playing string instruments. A small dais, no larger than a bed, stood unoccupied in the center of the room. The dozen or so masters present lounged on couches or cushioned chairs, while their slaves knelt on the floor. Chekov smelled some kind of spicy incense in the air that only seemed to merge with the drug he’d taken earlier, sending his head spinning.

Camlich sat in a seat near a roaring fire while the other guests ranged in an attentive circle around him. Chekov recognized Lady Mihran, and a trader with a ridiculous mustache that they’d seen at the auction, and a somber woman in dark colors he’d noticed before who he thought might be a Romulan.

McCoy led them to a chair that he could at least sit up in. Chekov folded himself in on the floor, leaning against McCoy’s legs. Sulu stood behind them.

As soon as they were settled, Miharan came over to McCoy, clasped his hand as if they were old friends, and turned back to Camlich. “My lord, you remember Doctor Annidar. Doctor, you of course know the Viceroy. “

“Medical doctor?” Camlich asked.

“Yes. I suppose you have some obscure ache you’d like to ask about,” McCoy said gruffly.

Mihran shot him a sharp glare, but Camlich only laughed. “I like you, Doctor. Slave,” he pointed at Chekov. “Get your master a drink.” He looked back at McCoy. “We were just discussing the sorry state of military readiness on this backwater planet. Wouldn’t you agree that they’re woefully lax?”

“It’s not really my area. But I will say I haven’t seen a single medical facility since I’ve arrived, and if a city has no place to treat its wounded, it won’t be fighting a war for long.”

“Spoken like a true medical professional.”

Chekov climbed to his feet and went in search of wine. He saw a carafe and empty glasses on the other side of the room, and made straight for it. Unfortunately, his path took him within Camlich’s reach. “You.” Camlich’s hand shot out to wrap around his wrist and draw him in to Camlich’s chair. “You’re the one who took your punishment so bravely yesterday.” He ran his hand down Chekov’s back, brushing it lightly over each of the lingering marks. The drug coursing through his system transformed each touch into a soaring note of purse sensation. “I would have thought your owner would have healed you by now.”

“It was meant to be a punishment,” McCoy said. “He needed a reminder, for now.”

“That’s lovely.” Camlich pulled Chekov closer, and darted out his tongue to lick across the length of one of the weals. Chekov shuddered in exquisite pleasure at the quicksilver rush of blood that caused. Camlich released his hold and leaned back in his chair. “Get your master that drink.”

Chekov made his way shakily over to the side table with the wine, and poured McCoy a generous glass, while taking deep breaths to try to bring himself back under control. Camlich’s smooth voice kept intruding on his serenity.

“Lady Mihran, I seem to recall that the dispute between you and Doctor Annidar involved his slave taking advantage of yours.”

“Yes, that was the dispute,” she said sweetly. “Settled now, of course.”

“Of course,” said the Viceroy. “May I ask which slave of yours he touched? Surely not the one attending you tonight.”

“The very same,” Mihran replied.

Camlich chuckled. “Weren’t you just telling me about your boy’s Vulcan heritage? Surely you can’t claim that this shivering Terran overpowered him?”

Chekov passed back around the circle carrying the wine, aware of the eyes fixed on him. He knelt smoothly at McCoy’s side and raised the glass for him to take.

“I did not say that my slave was entirely unwilling, my lord,” Mihran said. “Only that he was not ordered to partake.”

“And that is truly a shame,” Camlich said. “I’d like to see the two of them together.”

“My property is not for sharing,” McCoy said immediately. With his eyes properly downcast, Chekov couldn’t see his face, but he saw his grip tighten around the stem of the wine glass.

“Of course,” Mihran said smoothly. “I can understand not wanting another master to use your boy. But slaves are only animals, my dear. What do you think happens when we leave them alone in the pens or the barracks? Nature takes its course, as it has before and will again. They can’t help what they are. Let your boy have a little fun for once.”

Chekov closed his eyes and willed McCoy to remember his words. _”I may need to do things you will not like. You must promise not to hate me for them. You must promise not to hate yourself.”_

“Go on, then.” McCoy nudged Chekov with his foot. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Chekov rose gracefully, and with a credible imitation of shy eagerness.

Mihran reclined on her sofa. A brisk clap brought Luka to kneel at her side. She unfastened the lead from his collar with a deft twist of her hand. “Be gentle, Luka, and remember that Terrans don’t have the strength of Vulcans. You don’t want to damage the good doctor’s property.”

Luka, though his expression remained utterly blank, looked deathly pale. Chekov had served with Spock long enough to learn that Vulcan’s were not without emotion, and this Vulcan was certainly terrified. Nevertheless, he walked with Chekov to the dais in the center of the room.

“There’s something so freeing about watching two slaves together,” Mihran said with a happy sigh. “It’s like watching nature unchained, isn’t it, my lord?”

“It can be diverting,” Camlich answered. “Now, tell me how a man of the medical profession comes to own so fine a slave as that one.”

Then Chekov had no attention to spare for McCoy, even if he could have summoned the courage to look at him. He concentrated instead on maintaining mental walls as Luka’s hands ran all over his skin.

Luka slipped off his clothes with every evidence of confidence, and he helped Chekov do the same. The dais was covered in some firm yet yielding material, almost like a mattress. When Luka laid Chekov down on his back, he felt no physical discomfort, only the shame of being forced into this display, and dismay at being made to participate in Luka's subjugation as well.

Vulcans were strong, Chekov knew. When Luka's hand brushed his throat, he remembered vividly the sight of Commander Spock choking Kirk against the bridge console. If Luka wanted to harm him, he wouldn't be able to prevent it. However, Luka's hand felt surprisingly gentle, his skin hot to the touch. He buried his face against Chekov's neck momentarily.

"They like to see one of us submit. Do you have a preference?" Luka whispered.

Chekov shook his head. Absorbed as he was with maintaining his mental barriers, perhaps he would be better served to be as passive as possible. In any case, he wasn't sure he could bear to do something to Luka that he might not want.

"Alright. Be still, then."

Luka reached over to retrieve a slick substance from a little bag on his discarded belt. He wetted his fingers. Chekov lay still and tried not to look at McCoy and Sulu. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks at the mere thought of them. No. He couldn't think of them, or of why there were here. He pictured a wall again, rising around his mind, shutting out everything outside himself. Unfortunately, he could still feel his body, coursing with the rush of that slow-burning aphrodisiac.

Luka pressed Chekov's legs apart and lifted one knee to open him up. A finger prodded at Chekov's entrance warningly before plunging in. The sensation jarred Chekov's defenses. He took a deep breath, and meant to exhale slowly, but another finger joining the one inside him sent calm, rational thought spiraling out of his reach.

Chekov looked up at Luka then, who seemed intent on his task and was studiously avoiding eye contact. He wanted to tell him that it was alright; that he wouldn't hate himself, or hate Luka for what was happening. Chekov had known when they came here, after all, that he might face this treatment. Each step he took for this mission was only to ensure no other creature would have to endure the same.

Luka bent over him again, pressing their chests together. "Relax," he said softly. "I will try not to hurt you. You must control yourself, to make the passage easier."

Chekov realized his muscles were wire-taut. He tried breathing again, the way Spock had taught him: slowly in though his nose, out through his mouth. He tried willing his muscles to relax. He tried stretching out his limbs. But with his mind holding tight to its meager defenses, his body could not relent.

"Let me help you." Luka gathered Chekov's wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head. His other hand brushed down Chekov's face to rest on the side of his face. Belatedly, Chekov realized what he was attempting, and tried to squirm away

“It will be easier for us. It can feel good. Let me show you.” Luka’s fingers splayed against Chekov’s temple.

Chekov felt a pressure then, against the barriers of his mind and at the entrance of his body. He clung desperately to his mental wall, rapidly crumbling into dust under the force of Luka's presence.

"Let me help you," Luka whispered.

Luka’s body pushed forward, a heavy weight atop Chekov. His hardness breached Chekov’s entrance and sent the last of his mental barriers tumbling away.

Miles away, and also within him, Luka gasped. Chekov felt the cock filling him, but also felt the exquisite pleasure of being inside him. When Luka breathed, he felt it against his skin and in his mind. Luka could feel him, too: when he went slack, relaxing at last now that he had no barriers to hold, Luka slid deeper with a grateful sigh. Chekov shuddered in pleasure.

Chekov felt a fear not his own. When he opened his eyes, Luka was looking down at him, eyes wide, waiting for Chekov to rebel at the intrusion. Chekov felt the loneliness, the crushing defeat, the stinging humiliations suffered at the hands of cruel masters, the thought, _I only wanted to spare you the pain of this._

Chekov nodded, slowly. Even if this link would lead Luka to information Chekov would rather withhold, Chekov couldn’t fight it. Whatever made this violation easier for Luka to bear, Chekov was loathe to deny.

Luka’s presence filled him up in every way, so much that he ceased worrying about the onlookers. He didn’t care what McCoy would think. He didn’t mind Sulu seeing him like this. He didn’t concern himself that everyone in the room was watching them with rapt attention. He had no thought for anything except the tight sensation of his skin, which felt strangely doubled anywhere Luka’s hands roamed.

“Good,” Luka purred in his ear. Their motion together felt like the rocking of a boat, the two of them tempest-tossed together far from the placid stability of the Enterprise or the long-gone red sands of the Vulcan desert. With every movement, Chekov felt Luka’s pleasure building as if it were his own. He felt his wrists being crushed together as well as the hand holding them down.

Chekov tried to detach his emotions from the physical sensations of the meld, but Luka’s swirl of conflicting impressions—fear, pleasure, guilt, hope, anger—tugged at him, threatening to pull him back down.

He pictured McCoy’s bed: safe, warm, home. McCoy’s arms anchoring him, soothing him after a nightmare. He saw McCoy, solid and real in his uniform and two days’ worth of stubble, his scowl morphing into a smile as Chekov caught his hand in the corridor. Then there was someone else with Chekov, seeing through his eyes, feeling McCoy’s firm grip with his hand. Quickly, Chekov thrust the memory away.

He felt the burn in his lungs, unable to draw breath, even as he heard Luka gasp and experienced the sharp intake of air and a wave of surprise, a stirring of hope. Luka moved to grip his arms tightly, solid as McCoy had been. Chekov and Luka fell together and opened their eyes gasping for air as they spilled a mutual release.

Chekov held absolutely still as Luka trembled above him, blinking as if temporarily blinded. “Who are you?” he whispered.

The moment was broken by the intrusion of Lady Mihran’s delighted laughter. “See, he’s fine! Luka! Show the good doctor you haven’t damaged his property!”  
\--

Chekov seemed to be taking his sweat time returning. He knelt at the edge of the dais to wipe down with a cloth and bowl of water left for just that purpose. McCoy cursed every second it took Chekov to pull on his clothes and stiffly cross the distance of McCoy’s side. McCoy wouldn’t be satisfied until he could do a full-body scan back on the Enterprise, but for now having Chekov near enough to touch would go a long way toward re-assuring him that the encounter hadn’t left Chekov a mindless husk, or set off some life-threatening internal bleeding.

Chekov knelt beside McCoy’s chair with only a little slowness as evidence of his encounter. His hand landed on McCoy’s ankle, and he gave it a firm squeeze: their pre-arranged signal for all’s well. Then Chekov looked up at McCoy, then back to the platform, to where Luka still lay on his side, breathing hard. “Fine,” he muttered.

Chekov got up quickly and went back to the dais to lay beside Luka, brushing his hands soothingly through his silky hair.

“So, Doctor, are you still angry at us for having our fun?” Camlich called.

“Not at all. I can be agreeable, when the mood strikes,” McCoy said. “Are all your gatherings so… lively?”

Camlich laughed. “At least, my friend. I’m sure Mihran has told you of my role as a procurer. A talent scout, if you will. That is why I find myself at all these quaint festivals.”

“This has certainly been a memorable celebration,” said McCoy. “I hope you found what you were looking for.”

“I found a few things. That was quite a performance. I thank you for lending your property to enliven the proceedings. Doctor, I’d be interested in getting to know your slave better. How do you call him?”

“Pasha.”

“Yes, little Pasha. Do you object to my taking him for the night?”

Chekov looked up quickly. Mihran’s eyes flashed jealousy. Behind McCoy, Sulu tensed. McCoy himself managed to look calm. “My property is not for sharing, Lord Camlich.”

Camlich raised an eyebrow, and Mihran face registered shock.

“I’m not sure of your game, Doctor, but I appreciate your courage. I’d like you and your slaves to stay here for the night. It can be dangerous traveling through the city at this time of night. We’ll speak again tomorrow. Lady, goodnight.”

Camlich rose and, followed by his servants, exited through one of the stone archways.

As soon as he’d left the room, Mihran whirled around to face him, eyes dark with anger. “You fool,” she hissed. “Are you trying to undermine both our chances to get in his good graces?”

“I’m _trying_ to protect what’s mine.”

“I’m the one who suggested this plan, and--”

“Master,” Sulu said.

McCoy and Mihran both stopped mid-argument to follow Sulu’s gaze upwards.

Camlich stood on the walkway overlooking the room, gazing down at the twined forms of Chekov and Luka where they lay on the dais. He lingered for a long moment, then moved on, trailed by his guards.

“So,” Mihran said softly. “Perhaps it is I who have misjudged. His interest runs deeper than I realized.” She turned to McCoy and brushed out the folds in the front of her dress. “I apologize.”

“Apology accepted,” McCoy said. “He’ll still be interested tomorrow, and his appetite will be sharper to boot. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”  
\--

Since, Camlich’s hospitality to his guests extended to lodgings for the night, McCoy didn’t have to suffer through a trip across the city before he could examine Chekov. The passed the walk through the hallway in silence, however, and the silence remained after the wooden door closed behind them, when McCoy pulled Chekov to him and began looking him over.

“I am not injured, Len.”

“He melded with you, didn’t he.” There was no question in McCoy’s mind. Watching Chekov lay back and take such treatment had been bad enough, but when he’d seen Luka’s hand press into the psi-points on Chekov’s face, it had taken Sulu’s hand on his shoulder to prevent him from jumping up and interrupting the proceedings.

“Yes. I couldn’t prevent him.” Chekov sounded unnaturally calm. He slumped onto the room’s single, large bed.

“He could be telling Mihran our entire plan.”

“I do not think that he will,” Chekov said. “He hopes for rescue. We spoke to him before the feast.”

“McCoy, really,” Sulu said. “Mihran doesn’t even know about his abilities.”

“Fine,” McCoy said. He remained unconvinced that Mihran wasn’t extracting information from her slave right now, but even if she was, they had a job to do. “That still leaves us having to plant the damn tracking device. You’ve certainly attracted his interest. We just have to figure out how to use that.”

“He seemed like he was interested in Luka, too,” Sulu said. “If he’s taking Luka with him, maybe we could inject him.”

“We are not injecting an unsuspecting slave with an organic tracking device,” Chekov said. “We cannot do that to him.”

“But you’re willing to do it to one of Camlich’s allies?” Sulu asked.

“Absolutely,” Chekov said. “They are not so innocent.”

“Alright.” McCoy held up a hand. “Here’s the plan. I’ll pretend to offer you to him in the morning. Then I’ll have a pretext to see him. I’ll go to his quarters, explain that I’d like to deliver you to his ship personally. Then we’ll know where the ship is, we can plant the device and get out without having to show up to hand you over.”

“And what will we be doing while you’re confronting him alone?” Sulu asked.

“Staying out of trouble,” McCoy answered. He didn’t want to have to worry that Chekov and Sulu might be captured while he was out practicing his poor diplomacy skills. He trusted Sulu to take care of them, but they were in the heart of the enemy’s stronghold, and luck hadn’t been with them so far tonight.

“I do not like the idea of you going to speak to him by yourself,” Chekov said. “What is to prevent him from killing you in hopes of taking us?”

“Honor. His power would fall apart if his minions thought he’d kill them off at any minute for something so petty as a slave.”

“I don’t know about risking our mission on the basis of the Viceroy’s honor,” said Sulu.

“In the morning, we can find some way to plant the device on him before he leaves,” Chekov suggested. “If nothing else, I can distract him while you and Sulu find the ship. I know he is still interested in me.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him,” McCoy and Sulu said at once.

“And yet you are okay with being alone with him?” Chekov shot back at McCoy.

“It’s different and you know it.”

“If it is the only way to distract him, I must do it.”

“Chekov, you can’t--” McCoy began.

Chekov held up a hand to stop him. “Please, I am so tired. Can we just rest a few hours?”

“Of course.” He silently berated himself for pushing Chekov after he’d endured so much this evening. “Of course we can. Come here.” McCoy drew Chekov to the bed and carefully lay him down. “When we finish this tomorrow, you’ll let me go over those marks again with the dermal regenerator?”

“Yes, you may fuss as much as you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” McCoy thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but with his arms wrapped around Chekov, he was out in minutes.  
\--

Sulu woke up in the unfamiliar semi-darkness of the Governor’s palace. A nagging feeling of urgency had him pulling on his pants and boots, grabbing his sword, and slipping out the door before he knew where he was going.

In the small entryway outside their chamber, Chekov looked up in startlement from digging through McCoy’s med kit.

“Hikaru.”

“Pavel! What are you doing out here? If anyone sees you--”

“I have to take the chance. Hikaru, we are running out of time. They are already suspicious--”

“And finding you out here with me will only make it worse.”

“I can end this,” Chekov whispered. “I can give myself to Camlich and find out where he takes his prizes.”

“Pavel--”

“Do we have another choice? Today he will leave the planet, and we will not have this chance again.”

Sulu closed his eyes, and thought of all they’d done to get this far. “I know.”

“None of our other plans is very good.”

“No, they’re not.”

“I want to go and try to explain to him that Lady Mihran is a traitor, and that she asked me to do him harm so that the doctor would be blamed. If we are lucky, he may delay his departure to deal with her. In the confusion, we should be able to find someone to tag with the tracking injection.”

“That’s not a terrible plan,” Sulu said thoughtfully.

“Do not tell Len. He will try to stop me.”

“I should try to stop you.”

“But you will not.” Chekov laid a hand on his shoulder. “Because you are a warrior. You understand what sacrifice means.” He stood up and handed hypospray to Sulu’s pants. “I need help getting to Camlich’s chamber.”

“Alright.” Sulu said, but he promised himself that if he had his way, Pavel would make no sacrifices today.  
\--

When they approached the doors to Camlich’s private chambers, the two guards exchanged a grin. Chekov stopped in front of them and bowed his head.

“The Viceroy’s been expecting you,” the guard on the right said and pushed open the door. Sulu stepped forward.

“Clear off,” the other guard barked.

“I’m sworn to attend him.”

“Not in his lordship’s presence.”

Chekov stepped behind Sulu and held on to his arm.

“Fine,” the guard said with an exasperated sigh. “Follow me.”

“You.” The other guard waved a finger at him. “Stay by the door. You come within twenty paces of the Viceroy with that weapon on you and I’ll gut you, vow or not. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Camlich’s receiving room was lit softly with glowing balls of some luminous crystal. Camlich reclined on a sofa next to a blazing fire in a hearth as tall as Chekov and twice again as wide. Before him stood Mihran, with Luka kneeling at her side. Chekov’s chest tightened down on his thumping heart at the sight of them. He couldn’t give Camlich the story they’d planned, not with Mihran here.

“What a fortunate evening, indeed. Has the good doctor relented, then?” Camlich beckoned with two fingers.

Chekov crossed the room and knelt beside the sofa. Camlich traced a finger down the side of his face. “You have such an innocent face.” He glanced up at Mihran. “It seems you may have something to learn from this doctor, my dear. See what lovely trinkets he offers, without bothering me with bleating pleas for favors.”

“My lord--” she protested.

“You can leave me your offering and go now.”

“Yes, Viceroy.” With a cutting glance at Chekov, Mihran made her way to the door and brushed past the guards.

“Well, little ones. Aren’t you both lovely? We’ll have to send your guardsman away, sweet boy. No slave of mine needs protection beyond my favor. Isn’t that right?”

Chekov nodded slowly, then held up a finger. He rubbed his hands together, then lifted one off the other, touched his neck, and pointed to Sulu.

Camlich stared at him, and then at Sulu. Chekov repeated the gesture, willing Sulu to understand and obey. Just when Chekov began to despair, Sulu stepped forward.

“Sir,” he said. “Our master sent an additional gift. This drug is a custom blend: an aphrodisiac meant to excite the slave’s senses for your pleasure. He wanted to make sure that you enjoy Pasha’s performance.” With a significant glance at the guards surrounding him, to let them know he wasn’t drawing a weapon, he lifted the hypospray from his pocket and held it out.

“How do I know it’s not some trickery?” Camlich asked. “Poison, or a weapon of some kind?”

“If you like, I’ll administer it to him. I am sworn to do my ward no harm.”

Camlich looked between them, and seemed to come to a decision. “Do it.”

Chekov rose, walked over to Sulu, and turned his head to the side to bare his neck.

Sulu steadied a hand on Chekov’s shoulder, gave it an encouraging squeeze, and then injected the organic tracking compound into his bloodstream. Chekov bowed his head gratefully, then walked back to Camlich without meeting Sulu’s eyes.

Camlich curled a hand in Cheov’s hair as he knelt and waved the other hand at Sulu.

“I release you from your vow. He is mine now. Go and bother someone else.”  
\--

Sulu could do nothing but allow the guards to lead him out of the chamber. There was six of them, and they had phasers. Fighting would only get him killed and cast suspicion on Chekov. The door closed behind him, blocking out the sight of Chekov kneeling before Camlich. If that strange feeling in the back of his head that reminded him of Chekov hadn’t been projecting calm and serenity, he might not have had the strength to turn away. As it was, he turned to see McCoy strolling down the hall toward him, hands shoved casually in his pockets.

“Sir,” he said haltingly, and stepped up to McCoy. Behind him, Camlich’s guards milled uncertainly. He had to bring McCoy up to speed, so that he wouldn’t undo what Chekov was trying to accomplish. “I gave him the injection you sent. The aphrodisiac.”

“Fine.” McCoy’s jaw was clenched tight, and it seemed as if keeping his hands in his pockets was the only way he could prevent himself from hitting Sulu. “Go. Home.”

He brushed past Sulu to address the guards. “Please ask the Viceroy if he’d like to see me.”

The guard raised an eyebrow, but disappeared inside. He returned seconds later to gesture McCoy in. McCoy turned once more, looked Sulu right in the eye, and said, “Go home,” once more. Then he followed the guard inside and was gone.

Sulu turned and put one foot in front of the other, and in that way reached the end of the hall. As soon as he turned the corner, he broke into a run. He had to find a shuttle. He had to get back to the Enterprise.  



	6. Chapter 6

“Viceroy.” McCoy offered Camlich a wide smile as he stepped inside. “I see you received my present.”

“Yes.” Camlich petted Chekov’s hair, and Chekov leaned into his knee. “And he’s delightful.”

“I thought he deserved to be with one who’d appreciate him. I’m starting work for a new client soon, so I know I won’t have time to give him the attention he deserves.”

“Is that so?” Camlich narrowed his eyes at McCoy. “Who is this client?”

“You, sir,” McCoy said, and held his breath as he waited for Camlich to order him to be dragged away.

Instead, Camlich laughed uproariously. He threw his head back and howled, and his bodyguards joined with him like a pack of hyenas. At last, Camlich subsided. “You are really a remarkable fellow, Doctor Annidar. And you’ll be a credit to my entourage. Guard!” One of the guards from the hallway stepped inside. “Get the doctor’s things from his room and take them to my ship. He’ll be accompanying us home.”  
\--

Sulu pushed the shaking shuttle to its top speed, which was far too slow for his taste. He wished he’d had time to look for a better vessel to steal than this flying scrap heap, but the private hanger he’d raided right outside the Governor’s mansion had limited options. At least it had gotten him off the planet unmolested. Sulu set the heading for the rendezvous coordinates and then struggled to pull the wires of the communications panel into some sort of working order.

“Damnit!” The wires sparked in his face, and he pulled back singed fingers.

He glanced back at the navigation computer, adjusted the course heading—damn thing kept drifting off track—and tried to plug in the secondary communication system. Nothing: totally shot.

He dragged out one of the bags he’d snatched from their room—Chekov’s—and pulled out the disguised tricorder. Perhaps with this, he could piece together a way to tell the Enterprise to come beam him off this death trap of a shuttle.

He checked the course heading and made another correction, and that was about the time the landing gear caught fire.  
\--

Chekov lay writhing on the floor at Camlich’s feet. Although there had been no aphrodisiac in the injection Sulu had given him, he knew all too well what such a drug felt like, and he had no qualms about playing up the symptoms.

From his perspective, he could see Luka still kneeling beside Camlich’s chair, eyes carefully averted from Chekov. He could also see McCoy leaning casually against the wall, chatting with Camlich and looking for all the world as if he were perfectly comfortable in the company of killers.

“She’s actually the one who passed along the rumors of what you were looking for. It was my dumb luck that I acquired him,” McCoy was saying.

“At least you had the wisdom to use your assets well, doctor,” Camlich replied. “Still, I’d like to verify what I have. My steward should be back any moment with—Ah yes, here he is.”

Chekov saw another figure pass between him and the fire: this one short and squat, wearing some sort of dark-colored robe. He pointed a tool and Chekov’s collar, which beeped in response.

“Yes…” The steward said as he stood. “This slave was last purchased on Bussar. Yes… Yes, he was first collared by the Usite band out of Kar’golath. It’s the correct stardate.” He turned the display to show Camlich.

“Oh, delightful.” Camlich came to stand over Chekov. Luka, pulled by the lead attached to his collar, followed. “We’re going to have such a lovely time together, you and I. You know, you’re a pretty matched pair. The two of you should be the poster children of the Federation, and here you are, at my feet.”

Chekov curled up on himself, and Camlich bent down to ruffle a hand through his hair.

“Doctor, you have made this a most profitable trip. I owe you a debt of gratitude.” Camlich rose and turned to McCoy.

“It was no more than your due, Viceroy.” McCoy bowed, which looked unnatural to Chekov, as if it might upset the balance of the universe.

“And if you say that Lady Mihran had some hand in making this come to pass, well, I suppose I shouldn’t turn away as crafty an ally as that. Steward, go inform Lady Mihran that she’ll be accompanying us. And arrange accommodations on board. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

Camlich pushed his boot against Chekov’s shoulder to turn him over on his back. Chekov clawed at his chest, remembering the painful feeling of too-tight skin that being drugged could cause.

“Sorry, lovely boy. I just want to see what your dear doctor’s drug will do to you. I have no intention of enjoying your company until I have time to do it properly.”

Chekov shook his head frantically. He’d suffered through aphrodisiacs before that could drive a man mad with fever if he didn’t reach release; if McCoy was really the sadistic master he was playing, Chekov would surely be in for a painful day. Camlich smiled at his misery.

“In any case,” McCoy said. “I’m happy to mix up another batch whenever you’d like to use it on him.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You are a handy man to have around. Guards! Take these two on board and put them in a holding room. I’ll deal with them when I’m ready.”  
\--

Sulu had barely materialized in transporter bay two in the soot-covered remains of his skin-tight breeches when Kirk rushed onto the platform to hold him up. “What the hell happened?”

“They’re on his ship,” Sulu said. “The syndicate representative’s ship.”

Kirk’s face darkened. “Alive?”

“Yeah.” Sulu coughed through smoke-ravaged lungs. “For now.”

“Nurse! We’re going to get you to sickbay, Sulu.”

“No, no time. I’m alright for now,” Sulu said. When Kirk started to object, he said, “I can hold on as long as I have to.”

“Fine. Watkins, bring this man a uniform. We’re going to the bridge.” While they walked, Sulu gave Kirk a brief sketch of the events on the planet. After a quick stop to change out of his slave gear, Kirk led him on to the bridge, to cheers from his fellow officers.

“We’re glad Lieutenant Sulu’s back, but we’re not celebrating yet, people,” Kirk said. “We’ve got two officers to recover and a syndicate to bring down. Sulu, first things first, where are we going?”

“We have to pick up the signal and follow them,” Sulu said. “Just like we planned, keeping the minimum safe distance.”

“Wait, I thought you said McCoy and Chekov were trapped on that ship,” Kirk said.

“Not trapped, Captain. Or at least, trapped on purpose. Chekov used that organic tracking compound Scott gave us on himself.”

“Organic, what? Uhura, call Engineering, get Scotty up here. Spock, call battle stations.”

“Captain, we can’t go after them, guns blazing,” Sulu said.

“Why the hell not?” Kirk demanded.

“Because if we do, they’ll have given themselves up for nothing,” Sulu snapped. “Chekov got himself on board that ship so we could track it. If we stop them from getting where they’re going, we defeat the purpose.”

“We don’t have any idea where they’re going. It could take weeks,” Kirk said.

“I do not advise leaving Chekov alone with them for weeks,” Spock said.

“He survived a year as a slave without any assistance from us,” Sulu replied. “And he’s not alone. McCoy’s with him.”

“All the more reason to go after them. These people don’t strike me as the kind to keep prisoners alive,” Kirk said.

“They’re not prisoners. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Their cover is intact?” Spock asked.

“Yes. Sort of. They know Chekov’s a Starfleet officer.”

“So their cover is not intact?” Spock asked.

“Yes, it is. They think he’s still memory-wiped,” Sulu explained. “They think he’s still who he is when McCoy bought him on Bussar. A captured Starfleet officer.”

“And they think McCoy is…?” Kirk prompted.

“A very clever owner who brought them a captured Starfleet officer.”

“Lieutenant,” Spock said. “From what we know of the syndicate, I don’t believe they’re likely to give gentle treatment to a slave they know is from Starfleet.”

“No, they’re not.” Sulu tried to block out the mental image of Camlich’s cruel, bored expression. “But Chekov knew that, and he went anyway. Captain, we have to give him some time.”

“He did this on purpose?” Kirk asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The bridge fell silent for a moment, save for the ping of instruments. Then Kirk nodded, his decision made. “Okay. Lieutenant Uhura, find that signal. McKenna, keep us in orbit for now. We don’t want to spook our quarry. Spock, put together a covert away team. I want them in a shuttle on their way to the surface of Ranii in an hour. We’ll need them to break up the festivities once this plays out. Make sure to include medical personnel and plenty of security. Sulu. Get cleaned up, have M’Benga check you out, then report to my ready room at thirteen hundred hours for a full debrief. Let’s do this, people.”  
\--

Chekov hurried to keep up with the blue-uniformed guard. He got the feeling that even Camlich's special attention would not earn him any lenience with the attendants here. The corridors of the ship wound strangely, in no discernable pattern. Chekov committed their paths to memory as he walked; when the time came to escape, any advantage might be crucial.

Luka trailed him by only a few steps. He hadn't spoken since Camlich had ordered them aboard the ship, but he avoided Chekov's eyes each time Chekov attempted to check on him. McCoy and Lady Mihran had gone with Camlich, but Chekov doubted her absence was the cause of Luka's discomfort. Rather, Luka seemed upset at Chekov himself. "Here." The guard stopped outside a door no different from any of the two dozen they'd passed on this straight corridor. It bore no number or label, simply a glyph-like mark on the dull grey surface of the door. The guard pressed his hand to the control panel and the door slid open to reveal a small, square room, entirely bare.

Luka went in first, eyes downcast under the guard's watchful gaze.

Chekov glanced behind them in the hallway. He'd thought he might be able to hide somewhere on the ship until they'd reached their destination and thus avoid Camlich's tender mercies. These guards, however, seemed highly trained, and more vigilant than Chekov had hoped. And then there was Luka. Chekov stepped inside the cell and tried not to shudder as the door boomed shut behind him. Faintly, he heard the footsteps of the guard receding into the distance.

Without looking at Chekov, Luka settled himself cross-legged on the hard floor, facing the corner. He settled his hands on his knees and closed his eyes. Chekov reflected that he'd never seen Luka meditate, but if he remembered enough Vulcan training to mind meld, he must certainly remember this as well.

Chekov inspected their prison minutely. The door had pressure sealed behind the guard, with no gap anywhere in its construction, and no control panel on this side. The walls, floor, and ceiling were the same grey synthetic metal as the corridor outside. A small hole the width of a finger marked the center of the ceiling, but it was too high up for Chekov to reach on his own, and without examining it further, he couldn't guess its purpose. The room contained nothing: neither waste disposal system, nor food, nor comfort of any kind. Camlich couldn't store slaves this way for a long journey; at least not if he wanted them in good condition. This must be a temporary holding cell, then. Perhaps Camlich wanted to impress that the two would receive no special treatment, despite their value, or perhaps he didn't see the point in wasting comforts on slaves he planned to kill. Chekov fervently hoped it wasn't the latter.

Examining the room took pathetically little time. Chekov stood near the doorway listening until his imagination started to get the better of him and he began hearing phantom sounds. He sat against the wall next to the door and retraced the route they'd taken from the transporter room to this cell. He was certain he could get off the ship that way if the need arose. Of course, the challenge would be getting out of here and making it to the transporter room unchallenged, and buying himself sufficient time to find a suitable place to go, assuming such a target existed within range. If he left, he would be abandoning the mission: the only tracking device he had was himself. That left one viable tactical option: keep Camlich believing he represented no threat.

The cold of the metal wall crept into Chekov's skin. The slave uniform that had seemed less than sufficient at the banquet now seemed even more unpleasant. Luka wore no more than he: simple cotton pants cut below the knee, with no shirt nor footwear. Chekov estimated they guard had left them over an hour ago. Camlich probably intended to make them wait much longer than a mere hour, and Chekov would prefer not to spend that time miserable and shivering.

He knelt next to Luka and placed a hand tentatively on his back, against skin that felt warm to the touch. Luka didn't respond. Chekov wondered if he was simply too deep in meditation to notice the distraction. He moved his hand to Luka's shoulder, and that's when Luka moved. Chekov found himself thrown onto his back. His head glanced painfully off the hard surface of the floor. Luka slammed Chekov's hands down to pin them at his sides, and knelt atop him, trapping Chekov's center of gravity beneath his own.

Chekov blinked up at Luka. His Vulcan calm seemed disintegrated; his eyes burned with emotion, and he bore his teeth in a terrible snarl. "Betrayer. Traitor," he growled. "Why have you done this to me?"

Chekov opened his mouth, but couldn't speak to answer for himself. He still didn't know how much Luka had learned through their meld, but he couldn't risk giving away that he was not who he claimed to be. He would have given anything to have a way to explain to Luka that he meant him no harm.

"I know you were planning something with that man who pretends to be your master. You could have gotten us away from that place. Now we are trapped. Lord Camlich is like no other master. Don't you know what you've done?" He shook Chekov as he spoke. "You have murdered us!"

Chekov tried to raise a hand, to soothe, to attempt an explanation.

"No!" Luka shifted his grip to pin Chekov's wrists together with one hand. The other hand encircled Chekov's throat. "Do not give me your pretty lies. You seemed so innocent and kind."

His hand pressed down against Chekov’s neck, cutting off his air. Chekov struggled, trying to unseat Luka, or pull his arms free, but he was far too weak. He could only beat his bare legs against the floor ineffectually. For a moment, Chekov feared his death. He'd seen a Vulcan out of control exactly once, and only the intervention of an elder had stayed Spock's hand. No one would save him from Luka. He squeezed his eyes closed and tensed, waiting for darkness to take him.

Then the pressure was gone. He gasped in air, and his eyes flew open. Above him, Luka held he shaking hands in front of him. He looked pale and suddenly seemed very young. "No. I am not like them. I am not like they want me to be." He scrambled off of Chekov and retreated to his corner of the room to fold himself up against the wall.

Chekov stay where he was for a moment, gulping in air, unsure if Luka’s dark mood would return. When Luka stayed curled in on himself, his concern for the young Vulcan overrode his fear, and he went to wrap his arms around Luka. To his mild surprise, Luka neither shrugged him off nor attempted to hit him. He relaxed marginally under Chekov’s touch.

“I apologize. I should not have attacked you. You are not to blame for our current predicament.” Luka uncurled a bit, and when he turned to look at Chekov, his eyes were halfway sane. “I do intend to survive this place, so if you know something I do not, I suggest that you explain.”

Chekov shook his head.

“I could help you show me the information, you know. I remember how to connect to another’s mind.”

Chekov gently tapped Luka on the forehead, then wiped his hand across his own brow.

Luka regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

Chekov snatched at the air and repeated the other two movements.

“Are you asking me a question?”

Chekov nodded slowly.

“You’re asking if my memories were tampered with when I was captured?”

Chekov nodded.

“Yes. Most other slaves I have encountered remember nothing before they were captured. I believe that my abilities afforded me a measure of protection. Were you memories altered when you were taken?”

Chekov nodded again.

“But you remember things beyond your time as a slave. I have seen memories of you somewhere else, without a collar. But you were with your master. How do you explain this?”

Chekov thought for a moment about how he could possibly convey his position, and how much he could tell Luka without endangering his mission. The room was almost certainly monitored; he couldn’t risk giving away information he didn’t want his enemies to have. At last, he shrugged helplessly.

“If you will not tell me, I can find out for myself,” Luka whispered. “I do not need your permission to touch your mind.”

Chekov frowned. He pointed to the door, then shook his head, then pointed at Luka.

“I am not like them,” he said sharply. “I am only attempting to survive in difficult circumstances. You know more than you are telling me.”

Chekov gathered his thoughts into one focused idea. He reached for Luka’s hands and gripped them tightly, holding the image in his mind of watchers: cameras, recording devices, yellow eyes of beasts that watched from the darkness of the woods.

Luka snatched his hands away. He looked up at the ceiling, where one small dot provided the only variation in their cell. He looked back at Chekov and nodded.

“We will talk later.” He turned back to the wall, then relented, and held out his hand to Chekov. “Do you want to keep warm?”

Chekov nodded gratefully. They wrapped their arms around each other, found a less uncomfortable position wedged against the walls in the corner, and dozed.  
\--

Kirk was fairly certain his current headache was due to stress. If McCoy had been here, he’d have bullied his friend into giving him some sort of medication to stave off the worst of it, but he didn’t want to bother M’Benga with such a trivial thing. Besides, his doctor, his _friend_ was out there somewhere, and the job of finding him was starting to look difficult.

“You’re saying that we can’t track the tracking compound?” Sulu was asking. “Then what good is it?!”

“Neh, it doesn’t work like that,” Scotty said. “It’s not nearly powerful enough to emit a signal like a regular tracker would. More like it spools out a thin line behind it, that we can hold onto once we catch it. Luckily, we know what we’re looking for, so as soon as we catch one end off the signal, we shouldn’t be able to lose it again. Like a bloodhound catching a scent.”

“So how do we catch it?” Kirk asked.

“Well that part’s a wee bit tricky,” Scotty said. “The idea was that you’d be starting from where the compound was deployed. Picking up the scent from there.”

“Well we don’t exactly have time to beam down to the surface,” Kirk said. “Even if we could, we don’t want word to get back to the Viceroy that Starfleet is hunting him.”

“I think I can find it,” Sulu said.

“Lieutenant, I’m not sure you grasped what Mister Scott is attempting to explain,” Spock said. “The path of the signal—”

“Will be very difficult to find, I get it.”

Kirk looked closely at Sulu, who seemed to be listening to a faraway sound. “Sulu?”

“I have a feeling about this. Can I…?”

“By all means,” Kirk said. Having come up with no brilliant plan of his own in the last five minutes, he was certainly willing to give Sulu a chance. Sulu seemed to feel very confident about this idea, and Kirk of all people knew that good things could come of indulging hunches. They all trooped onto the bridge: Sulu looking faraway yet hopeful, Spock looking dubious, Scotty curious, and Kirk watching them all and withholding judgment, for once.

“Mister Sulu, you can take the helm.”

“Captain,” Spock said quietly. “You realize if we range too close to the fleeing vessel, we are likely to lose them entirely.”

“I understand that. But considering how long it took Sulu to make the rendezvous point in that beater of a shuttle, I don’t think we’re in danger of that quite yet.”

“As you say.”

Sulu sat down at the controls with a look of complete calm. “Engaging manual control,” he said.

Jumping out of autopilot could be a bumpy experience, but Sulu worked the helm with such a deft touch that Kirk barely felt the difference.

“Uhura,” Kirk said. “Keep a sharp ear out for that signal.”

“Aye, captain.”

Ranii loomed large in the viewscreen, then fell away as Sulu brought the Enterprise about. He took them out past high orbit range, and further still.

“Sir,” Spock said, quietly again, “a search pattern closer to the planet’s atmosphere would provide a greater chance of--”

“Shh,” Kirk said. “Let him try.”

Sulu closed his eyes, and seemed to be listening to some inner voice as he worked the controls.

“Captain,” Spock said.

“Yes, Mister Spock.”

“Our pilot seems to be flying with his eyes closed.”

“Yes, Mister Spock.”

“Do I need to point out the reasons why this is unadvisable?”

“No, Mister Spock.”

“There,” Sulu said, and opened his eyes.

“Captain!” Uhura called. “I think I have it.”  
\--

McCoy cursed under his breath as another guard walked by. He took the opposite corridor, and was hopelessly lost again. At this rate, he was never going to find where they’d taken Chekov. He took another branching path at random. To his dismay, this turn brought him face to face with Lady Mihran.

“Doctor! What a pleasant surprise. I wanted to speak with you.”

“Wonderful,” he muttered, but he plastered on a polite smile and went to walk beside her.

“Camlich’s guards told me you seemed to be wandering aimlessly, so I thought you might like some company.” She extended her hand to take McCoy’s arm, and he allowed it.

“Usually I prefer long walks on the beach,” McCoy said, “but I take whatever walk I can get.”

“You’re a strange man, Doctor.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Tell me something. First you deliberately undermine me in front of Camlich, then you tell him that bringing your Starfleet boy to him was all my idea, and all but insist that he bring me along. You’re certainly not the bumbling political novice you play at seeming. Who are you really?”

“Just a simple country doctor. And now I’m a simply country doctor with at least two powerful friends.”

“Hm.” She tossed her hair and let it fall down to hide her face, but not before he’d seen her pleased smile. “I was just headed down to the slave quarters to examine Camlich’s stock,” she said. “Shall we walk that way?”

“Sounds even better than the beach.”

Mihran steered them through a series of complicated turns that McCoy gave up trying to memorize after his mental map doubled back on itself. Twice.

Meanwhile, Mihran kept up her cheerful monologue about Camlich’s slave stock. “He does get first pick of anything traded at the festival, so I’m sure he has some of the most unusual finds. I quite enjoy seeing the more unusual slaves. I know your tastes run to the exotic as well. I mean, a mind-wiped Starfleet officer and a guardsman to take care of him. Whatever happened to your guardsman, anyway?”

“I told you, you can’t buy them, only pay their contract. When I sold Pasha, his contract was severed, so now ‘Karu will go back to the guild for reassignment.”

“How strange not to truly own a slave that serves you. I wouldn’t want someone that close to me whose loyalty I couldn’t control completely.”

And that, McCoy thought, was yet another reason he had trouble keeping his meals down when he was with her.

Either Mihran’s sense of direction far eclipsed McCoy’s or she’d been given some sort of tour, because she unerringly found her way to a guarded door in a part of the ship McCoy hadn’t seen before.

The uniformed guard at the entrance nodded to each of them in turn, then punched a code into the control panel. The door slid open noiselessly.

Two more guards stood stationed inside the door, and one of these fell into step behind McCoy and Mihran as they stepped out onto the narrow walkway that ran along the wall overlooking the slave barracks. The open space inside the chamber rivaled one of the Enterprise’s cargo bays. From their vantage point, McCoy had a clear view of the slaves—more than a hundred, he estimated. Sleeping units seemed to be set into the floor, and many were occupied by slaves in tight gray pants, some of which had other clothes or accessories, some not. A table with benches ran the length of the far wall. Some slaves sat there, huddled together, apparently talking. Others sat or stood around the room in small groups.

At the sound of McCoy and Mihran’s footfalls on the metal walkway grating, an immediate silence seized the room. Slaves glanced up, then quickly averted their eyes.

Mihran leaned over the railway, peering down. “Aren’t they precious?” Her voice echoed, over-loud in this silent tomb of a barrack. “A smorgasbord of delicious possibilities. The Viceroy told me that we’re welcome to their hospitality for the duration of the voyage.”

“Right. Great.” McCoy carefully scanned the crowd of slaves, but didn’t see the one curly blond head he was looking for.

“You’ve probably been spoiled having just one slave for this long, haven’t you?” she asked. “You’ve gotten lazy with never having to explain what you want and knowing all the things that make your boy beg and love you for it.”

“It is… convenient.” McCoy tried very hard not to think about the ticklish spot on Chekov’s right side that never failed to set him laughing and swatting at McCoy. He wanted Chekov in his arms again, wanted it so badly he ached with it.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure either they’re still getting your boy settled, or he’s with Camlich. Either way, I’m certain he’s being seen to,” Mihran said. Both prospects sounded equally unappealing to McCoy. “Besides, Doctor, variety is the spice of life. Let me show you the fun that can be had with a new toy.”

“Perhaps another time,” he said, and smiled grimly at the dimming of the fierce pleasure in her eyes. “I have some other business to attend to.” He left the room, dragging behind him the guilt of knowing Mihran certainly wouldn’t leave until she found a victim for her pleasure.  
\--

“Honesty,” said Sulu, “I have no good explanation.” His head felt perfectly clear, aside from a rising tide of anxiety that probably came from being cross-examined by the rest of the senior bridge crew, or possibly was a lingering side-effect of nearly burning alive in a shuttle fire.

“But that,” Scotty said. “That was like picking a needle out a haystack using a ship. A ship that has no opposable thumbs, by the way. Shouldn’t have been possible.”

“I agree that it seems unlikely to be a coincidence,” Spock said. “Mister Sulu, can you describe again how exactly you pinpointed the signal?”

“It’s a thing that’s kind of been happening,” Sulu said slowly. When the others looked at him with varying degrees of incredulity, he sighed, and tried to formulate a better—a more scientific—explanation. “When we were on the planet, I developed this awareness of Chekov. I could tell if he was in pain, that sort of thing.”

“Like an empathic connection,” Spock said.

“You’re saying you suddenly developed empathic abilities?” Kirk asked.

“I’m not saying anything! I’m just telling you what happened. I could sense things that happened to him. I woke up, that last morning, when he was planning to run off on his own, and I knew I had to follow him. I don’t know why.”

Kirk suddenly leaned over the table for a better look at Sulu. “You’ve been on board how long, now? Six hours? Eight?”

“Something like that,” Sulu said. “Why?”

“Why haven’t you taken your collar off?”

“I did.” But Sulu brought his hand up to his throat, and felt the warm weight of it around his neck. “Okay, I thought I did. That’s odd.”

“Didn’t you say that the guardsman who came to visit here gave you that collar?” Kirk asked.

“Let me see it,” Scotty said, crowding closer.

“I don’t think I want to take it off yet.” Sulu pulled away from Scotty’s prying hands. “Not until we get them back.”

“That’s irrational,” Spock said. “A mere accessory has nothing whatsoever to do with Doctor McCoy and Ensign Chekov’s return.”

“It just seems like I shouldn’t take it off.” Now that he realized he still had it on, Sulu felt a bit ill when he thought of removing it.

“Wait a second,” Kirk said. “I have an idea. Come on, Sulu.” He rose, and Sulu followed reluctantly.

“Where are we going?” Sulu asked when they’d made it to the corridor.

“Sickbay.”

Sulu stopped abruptly. “I don’t need—”

“Now,” Kirk said, and kept walking.

“Why--? Oh, never mind.” Sulu followed his captain.

When they made it to sickbay, Kirk flagged down Nurse Chapel. “Nurse, can you take a look at this for me?” He motioned Sulu forward and pointed to his collar.

Chapel looked at the collar, then up at Sulu, then back at Kirk. “It’s a collar,” she said, with a look that clearly said she doubted Kirk was qualified to be captain.

“Yeah, got that part,” Kirk said. “Can you, I don’t know, scan it or something?”

“Scan it,” she said slowly.

“Medically scan it. With a medical thing.”

“Lieutenant?” she turned to Sulu.

“I think he has a hunch,” Sulu said helpfully.

“You’re sure this isn’t something an engineer should be doing?” she asked.

“Humor me,” Kirk said.

Chapel went to retrieve a medical scanner from the counter, muttering, “I hope McCoy gets back soon.” But she pointed the scanner. Then she frowned. “Bizarre.”

Kirk gave Sulu his best “told you so” look.

“The collar itself has a brainwave pattern,” Chapel said. “It looks like something psi-sensitive, like a Betazoid.”

“Psi-sensitive?” Sulu said. “You’re saying the collar’s sentient?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Chapel said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“So it could be imparting some sort of empathic link,” Kirk said.

“It’s not really my area.”

“Maybe it’s enhancing latent psychic abilities of some sort?”

“Captain, I’m running out of euphemisms for ‘I don’t know.’”

“Right.” Kirk strode over to the wall panel and comm’d the bridge. “Uhura?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“I need you to contact Vhatos Rho. We need to know what the hell his friend gave Sulu.”  
\--

Chekov woke up to the door of their cell creaking open. Two uniformed guards stood at the doorway. “Come.”

Luka untangled himself from Chekov and stood first. Chekov followed more slowly, wincing at unfolding joints grown stiff with cold.

One guard led the way, the other followed the two slaves as they made their way through monotonous corridors that branched and twisted until Chekov was sure the architect of the Viceroy’s ship had been mad. At last they opened a door—again, marked only with a single glyph—and shooed the two inside.

Two slave women in drab gray uniforms and plain black collars stripped them efficiently. The guards stood by, leaning against the wall and leering, but the women expressed as little interest in the two as if they had been dumb animals. They shoved both Luka and Chekov under a spray of cold water and scrubbed them down with coarse clothes. Chekov hissed as one woman scraped carelessly over the wounds on his back, and Luka shot the woman such a hard look that she backed off immediately. The whole operation was accomplished with impersonal, silent efficiency.

While they were drying down Luka, one of the women pushed Chekov to his knees, produced a pair of clippers, and began efficiently shearing his hair. He kept his eyes trained on the ground, watching his curls drift to the damp metal floor. McCoy loved to twirl his hands through Chekov’s hair; he was always saying how soft it was, how he loved the smell, the feel of it.

A sudden movement grabbed Chekov’s attention, as Luka shoved the woman attending him. She stumbled back but stayed on her feet. The nearest guard stepped quickly forward and slammed his fist into Luka’s belly with a sickening thud. Luka fell to his knees, gasping, and the guard crouched beside him with a firm hand around the back of his neck. “Behave,” he said warningly.

When the woman approached Luka with her cutters, Luka tried to scramble away again, but the guard drew back a foot to kick him, and Luka quickly stilled. He clasped his hands on his thighs until his knuckles turned white, as the woman cut away lock after lock of his thick black hair, shearing him right down to the scalp. When she finished and moved away, Luka was shaking. With his pointed ears so exposed, his face looked even younger; he seemed more naked than Chekov had ever seen him.

Then the women led them into the next room, where one of the women picked up a long metal tool with a circle at the end about the size of Chekov’s palm. He knew he’d seen such a thing before, but couldn’t place where. Then the guards pressed Chekov against the wall face-first. The woman holding the tool stepped up behind him and pressed the circle into the skin of his shoulder. He had a split second to remind himself he must not scream before the pain hit him.

The brand’s burn seared through him like a roaring fire. He jerked forward, smashing his head against the wall, and found the dull ache a pleasant distraction from the screaming burn of the brand. The smell of burning flesh hit him a moment later, threatening to turn his stomach. The brand was pulled away, the guards released him, and he slumped to the floor, unable to catch himself.

Luka’s scream and the guards’ cursing seemed to come from very far away. Then Luka’s cry turned from angry defiance to a more desperate pitch: the sound of an animal caught in a trap. Chekov tried to pull himself up, but his body wouldn’t obey him, couldn’t obey him. Everything seemed to be shutting down around him.

When he woke up, he felt blessedly numb. The woman who’d washed him was rubbing some sort of cool ointment into his shoulder. They must have given him a pain killer, because he couldn’t feel the brand, or the wounds from the whip, at all.

“Rest now,” the woman said. She pointed to a blanket rolled out along the wall of this room: somewhere new altogether. Chekov looked around quickly. It took him a moment to recognize the shivering, naked wretch sitting curled on a blanket as Luka.

“Tonight you will be with the others, but you must regain your strength,” the woman said. “We will bring you food later.”

Chekov waited until she left, leaving them in semi-darkness. A glowing panel in the room’s ceiling gave plenty of light once his eyes adjusted. He dragged himself unsteadily to his feet and went to check the door. As he’d expected, there was no control panel, and no way out.

Chekov walked over to Luka, who sat with his legs drawn up to his chest, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He knelt beside him for a moment, just listening and watching him. When Luka didn’t move, Chekov touched his arm. Luka pulled his hands away from his eyes and shook his head. “Do you know the history of our people?” he asked.

Chekov cocked his head to the side. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. He held his hand and rocked it side-to-side for “sort of.”

“We share a common ancestry with the Romulans. We chose the path of the philosopher Surak, to conquer our emotions and embrace logic, and they… did not.”

Chekov nodded: yes, he knew that.

“We are much the same, beneath the surface. Vulcans do feel emotions, deeply. We simply choose to control them.” He slid closer to Chekov, and leaned his head against Chekov’s shoulder. “I feel such anger, Pasha. I cannot control it. They are taking away everything that makes me Vulcan, and turning me into something else.”

Chekov wrapped his arms around Luka and held him close as the Vulcan clutched at him, taking deep breaths and trying to hold down his panic. Chekov wished he dared tell him that everything would be alright, that he shouldn’t give up.

“They’ve already found a way to erase everything you were. I cannot let them do that to me.” He grabbed Chekov by the shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Help me find a way, and I will end this misery for us both.”

Chekov shook his head frantically. He couldn’t let Luka even consider that, not when he was part of the reason Luka was here. He pulled Luka’s hand to his head, and opened his mind.

_”I am a Starfleet officer.” The bridge swam in his vision: the shine of the instruments, and the gleam of the endless frontier of stars beyond. “The Federation sent me here. Even now my ship is pursuing us.” The Enterprise cut through space, the stars a blur around her. “They will find us, and they will stop Camlich and his allies.” Kirk held phaser, firing with deadly aim. “We only have to wait a little longer.”_

Luka pulled away, gasping. Chekov waited for him to attack, to berate him for letting this happen, to question why he had allowed innocent bystanders to get caught up in this madness. Instead, Luka breathed in deeply, and let out a long, slow breath. He looked calm for the first time since they’d been brought aboard.

“Come on.” Luka wrapped his arms around Chekov again in a pleasantly warm embrace, and they lay down together on the thin blanket. “We will wait a little longer.”  
\--

Uhura found herself once again confronting the wrinkled face of the ancient Doctor Vhatos Rho, this time with his companion, the guardsman Jhellain, on the vid screen. Kirk and Sulu sat beside Uhura at the table.

To their credit, Rho and Jhellain didn’t pretend not to know why she had contacted them.

“The collar works as an empathic implant, allowing the guardsman to monitor his ward more closely,” Rho explained. “It also ensures that he will continue to value his ward’s safety.”

“However, it only works if the person in question either already has an emotional connection to his ward, or the capacity to develop one,” Jhellain added. “You could never ward someone you hated, for example. That is why the guild is solely responsible for identifying potential guardsmen and assigning them wards.”

“Apparently Jhellain was correct in her judgment that you were capable of forming an emotional connection to your ward, Mister Sulu. Correct in spades,” Rho said with a raised eyebrow.

Uhura started to ask a question about that, but Sulu cut her off.

“When we were together on the planet, I could sometimes feel strong emotions from Chekov. If he was in danger, or something. Would I still be able to feel that, from this distance?” Sulu asked.

“Perhaps,” Jhellain said. “Distance does tend to mute the effect of the empathy.”

“Well, what about this bloodhound thing Sulu did,” Kirk piped up. “Could we find Chekov with it? Could the connection be used that way?

“If it was strong enough,” Rho said. He glanced at Jhellain, who nodded. “The emotional connection would have to be very robust, and probably built up over time.”

“Will it only work for me?” Sulu asked. “I mean, it’s not keyed to my DNA or anything, is it?”

“No, not exactly. You won’t be able to change who the connection is already built with, if that’s what you mean. Your ward remains yours until one of you dies.” Rho made a sign against evil.

“I mean Doctor McCoy,” Sulu said. He glanced at Kirk. “If I gave it to him, his connection to Chekov might expedite finding him once you beam aboard.”

“Are you sure it will work for him?” Uhura asked.

Jhellain looked at Sulu. “What do you think, Mr. Sulu? You know the requirements. Does Doctor McCoy meet them?”

Uhura thought back to the questions Sulu had described: if he would risk his life for another, if he had ever been in love. And the vow: _All that has been taken from him, I restore._

“Yes,” Sulu said without hesitation. “Yes, he does.”

“Then,” Rho said, “he just might have a chance.”  
\--

The women, escorted by three guards, had moved Chekov and Luka to the slave barracks that afternoon, and outfitted them with the same drab gray pants as all the others. They’d been fed, bathed again, and given another injection that chased away the pain of their still-raw brands. Chekov hadn’t had any time more alone to try to communicate with Luka, but since Luka had made no move to alert the guards to a spy in their midst, Chekov continued to trust him.

The rest of the slaves kept away from them, scampering away whenever Chekov or Luka got too close, as if they might carry some plague. After being snarled at or ignored by almost every other slave in the barracks, they found an unoccupied sleeping mat in one of the recessed alcoves, and lay down together. Neither of them slept, but they held each other for comfort, united together against the pain of the outside world.

When the door on the upper level hissed open, and boots echoed on the walkway above, all the slaves froze like mice under the gaze of a hunting hawk. Taking their cue from the others, Chekov and Luka held very still.

“Those two,” said a voice from on high.

Chekov sat up immediately and looked to the walkway. McCoy stood pointing down at them from the upper level. His heart leapt, but he immediately schooled his expression into neutrality. Though McCoy seemed to be alone, someone could still be watching.

A guard stationed by the door on the lower level came to drag Chekov and Luka out of their bed and push them toward a smaller door Chekov hadn’t noticed before. This one led down a narrow corridor. At the end, a door opened onto a small room stocked with a crude biobed and several sealed cabinets. After a moment, McCoy appeared in the doorway.

“You can go,” he told the guard.

The guard didn’t move. He jutted his chin out at Luka. “That one fought. He’s dangerous.”

“I think I can handle two slaves,” McCoy said with an impressive amount of venom. “Stand outside. I’ll call if I need your assistance.”

Looking pained, the guard stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

McCoy’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling, then around the room. At last, he looked at Chekov and raised an eyebrow.

Chekov didn’t see any obvious places for cameras or recording devices, but he didn’t know what kind of advanced technology the syndicate possessed. He’d rather not gamble, so he shrugged helplessly.

McCoy’s face fell, but he nodded. “I’ve been ordered to prepare you to entertain tonight. The Viceroy wants to sample his new wares.”

He turned around to drop his med kit on the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, Chekov saw Luka poised to strike, and stepped in front of him. He grabbed Luka’s wrist and concentrated on the picture of McCoy in a Starfleet uniform, and the feeling of safety and home that came every time he crossed Chekov’s mind. Luka looked between Chekov and McCoy, nodded, and backed down.

McCoy turned around and made a strangled sound.

Chekov whirled to see what he was looking at, but McCoy caught his arm and turned him around again. “Is this a _brand_?”

Chekov winced. He’d almost forgotten about it: the pain reduced to a numb throbbing thanks to whatever they’d dosed him with. He couldn’t see the mark, but judging from the state of Luka’s, his own couldn’t look pretty.

“Damn fools around here,” McCoy muttered. “Liable to get infected, and then where would they be? Pasha, stand still. Luka, go lie facedown on the table. You’re next.”

McCoy cleaned the wound and taped a bandage over it. “A dermal regenerator would heal this much faster,” he explained softly. “But I don’t think that’s what the Viceroy is going for.”

Chekov nodded his understanding.

He watched as McCoy gave Luka the same treatment, all while trying to touch him as little as possible. Luka kept his eyes closed tight, as if waiting for a blow that never came. At last, McCoy turned back to Chekov. He settled a hand on his shoulder and allowed them both a moment of indulgence by kissing Chekov’s forehead. “You hurt anywhere else?” he asked.

Chekov shook his head. McCoy turned him around and pressed his hand to an unmarked spot on Chekov’s back. “Whip marks are healing up okay. You’ll need another round with the dermal regenerator soon, to make sure they don’t scar.”

Chekov nodded. He wanted to tell McCoy that they would be alright, that they would surely be back on the Enterprise in a few days, but he wasn’t sure of that himself. Here in this cold, sterile room, the Enterprise seemed like a faraway fantasy that belonged to another life.

“Luka, are you hurt at all?”

Luka froze, perhaps startled at being addressed. He dropped his eyes immediately to the ground. “No, sir.”

“Good. There’s one more thing.” He let go of Chekov. “The Viceroy says we’ll be reaching our destination tonight. He wants to… celebrate. He asked me to administer the same drug I did before. To make sure that you… enjoy tonight’s festivities.” He glanced at Luka. “I told him I couldn’t risk giving the drug to a Vulcan, as I had no idea what it might do to someone of your physiology. When I said you might die of an allergic reaction, he figured it was best that you go without. So no injection for you.” He nodded to Chekov. “I’ll just get that mixture put together.”

He punched a code into a small panel by one of the locked cabinets, and it popped open to reveal a row of meticulously labeled containers. McCoy took a hypospray from his med kit and fumbled about with it.

Chekov watched the whole operation, thinking that someone who was unfamiliar with McCoy’s meticulous attention to detail while working might be fooled by his pretense of putting together an aphrodisiac, but Chekov knew better. If there was any medicine at all in that hypospray, Chekov would be surprised.

McCoy turned around with the hypospray and a determined look. “Ready?”

Chekov couldn’t be sure what Camlich had in mind for him and Luka this evening, but he’d lay odds that it wasn’t pleasant. Chekov thought of what he had done before, feigning a drug-induced stupor, but fully aware of Camlich’s every sadistic grin as he watched Chekov squirm. He shook his head emphatically.

“What?” McCoy said.

Chekov went over to the cabinet, glanced over the bottles quickly, and found a likely looking one. He tapped the bottle on the shelf, then the hypospray in McCoy’s hand, and pointed to himself.

McCoy lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m not giving you a mind-altering drug.”

Chekov closed his eyes and dug inside himself for a way to make McCoy understand. He came up with nothing. He just opened his eyes and looked up at the man he loved. He wanted to say he couldn’t do this alone. He wanted to ask for help. He wanted McCoy to save him.

McCoy reached out and brushed his fingers against Chekov’s cheek. He knew. He understood. He would do anything to take this pain away from Chekov.

McCoy quickly turned back to the counter. He drew down two of the containers from the cabinet, mixed a compound, and loaded it into the hypospray. “You’ll have a few hours before the main effects take hold,” McCoy said as he worked. “It’ll last a few more hours after that. Just… Drink fluids, if you can.” He met Chekov’s eyes again, and received a nod before he pressed the hypospray against Chekov’s neck.

The drugs hit Chekov’s system like a slow-motion wave. He spent a moment washed out past the shores of his consciousness before being carried back to reality.

McCoy was packing up his med kit. He closed up the cabinets, took one last look around the room, and nodded to Luka. He pulled Chekov in by the neck and kissed him quickly. “See you soon.” He pushed open the door. “See, was that so hard?” he sneered at the guard. Then he was gone.  



	7. Chapter 7

“Captain!” Uhura called.

“I see it,” Kirk said. “Sulu, bring us about, now!”

Sulu handled the Enterprise into an impressive pivot, swinging the viewscreen back to the small moon where their quarry had just gone to ground.

“That’s it,” Kirk said. “We’ve got him.”

“We are less than two days’ journey from the edge of Federation space. How have they managed to hide from us here?” Spock asked.

“The moon has a porous surface; it must be full of caves.” Kirk said.

“If I hadn’t seen the signal go under the surface myself, I would swear it just blinked out of existence,” Uhura said.

“Can Scotty get you over there?” Sulu asked. “They could be anywhere inside that thing.”

“He had better. Uhura?”

“I’ll alert him.”

"Sir, as soon as they see us, any ship that is able will attempt to escape," Spock said.

"Sulu?"

"I’m on it. We’ll trap them like rats, sir. With our phraser array, we should be able to take out propulsion. I’ll make sure nothing breaks out," Sulu said grimly. If he trusted no one else with Chekov's safety, he at least knew this was his best way to help, now.

“Uhura, alert security. I want small security teams ready to beam onto any disabled ship. They need to be ready to go hand to hand. I don’t want any of these slimebags getting nervous and trying to get rid of their slaves. Spock, you’re with me.”

"Commander,” Sulu called. Spock stopped at the doorway, and Sulu jumped up from his post for a moment to come closer, and speak privately to him. “There's a Vulcan slave. I think he was taken on board with Chekov."

Spock’s face was difficult to read at the best of times, but Sulu saw his features harden and resolve into something Sulu wouldn’t want to see in a dark alley. "Thank you,” Spock said.

"Uhura,” Kirk called. “Ask Scotty to meet us in transporter bay two. Sulu, keep on anything that flies. Nothing gets in or out.”

"Yes sir.” Sulu sat back down at his post. “Captain,” he called, and Kirk gave him his full attention. “Bring them back."

"I will." Kirk had the look of a man who hadn’t watched his crew and his friends be torn apart by the demands of this mission just to let a crazed warlord break their hearts now. "Just keep him busy for us."  
\--

McCoy stood behind one of the room’s low reclining couches, digging his fingers into the upholstery and wishing he could shred it with his bare hands. Lady Mihran sat with Luka curled up next to her, watching the proceedings with obvious pleasure.

Chekov knelt, glassy-eyed, before Camlich, swaying as if hypnotized by the slow side-to-side movement of Camlich’s hand.

“It’s almost a pity,” Camlich said brightly. “I’d have liked to have gotten my hands on you before the Usites. Their methods are effective, but they leave their victims so… empty.” He took Chekov’s chin in his hand. “You’re young to be an officer. You must have been excellent at your job. A doted-on prodigy, perhaps.” He pinched Chekov’s cheek playfully. “The ship’s darling, no doubt.”

He released Chekov and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “This would be so more delicious if he had any idea what I was talking about. You see, Doctor, why I get so bored. They take all the fight out of them nowadays. I prefer the old ways, when masters made their authority an art. Any half-sentient creature could handle these fools. They’re placid as Andorian cows.”

“Some of them can be a challenge,” Mihran offered. She patted Luka’s head. “The trainers informed me that this one’s mind couldn’t be completely broken. Apparently Vulcans have some kind of natural mental shields that prevented the Usites from completing their work.

“Really? Fascinating. Have you had trouble keeping him disciplined?”

“No, but then again, I have years of experience with slaves who haven’t been mind-wiped into docility. Once he learned the consequences of defying me, he began to cooperate.”

“Hm. This one has marks of insubordination on his record as well, though not since coming to Doctor Annidar.” Camlich chuckled. “Despite the memory loss, he still hopes for something more than a slave’s life.”

“That’s the Federation. Stuffing their children’s heads full of unrealistic dreams,” Mihran said.

“Come here, dear boy.” Camlich patted his lap, and Chekov climbed astride him obediently.

Even from several feet away, McCoy could see a thin sheen of sweat on the naked expanse of his skin, and the shivering as his body struggled to cope with the overflow of hormones and adrenaline. “You’re a good slave, aren’t you?”

Chekov nodded.

“And you want to please master, don’t you?”

Chekov nodded again, harder this time.

“You’ll have to do better than that.” Camlich shoved Chekov suddenly, sending him tumbling off his lap and onto the floor.

McCoy gripped so tight he was in danger of leaving permanent indentations in the furniture. Luka sat up abruptly, and Mihran wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him in place.

Chekov sorted himself out enough to get to his knees, then stayed put.

“Try harder,” Camlich snapped. “Now, crawl to the Lady Mihran.”

Chekov crawled across the plush carpet of the chamber to kneel before Mihran.

“Good,” Camlich said. “Now, she deserves your thanks for telling Doctor Annidar I was interested in you. She knew how valuable you are. Aren’t you glad she knew that, Pasha?”

Chekov nodded, eyes downcast.

“Now kiss her foot.”

McCoy didn’t see even a moment of hesitation before Chekov bent to the floor and pressed his lips against Mihran’s sandaled foot.

Camlich laughed. “Now crawl to Doctor Annidar.”

Chekov crawled. McCoy tried not to watch him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight: Chekov, his beautiful body marked with the wounds of the past days, approaching him like a penitent. Even in his obedience, he was graceful and proud. He didn’t look defeated, he merely bent to their whims as if it cost him nothing.

“Thank Doctor Annidar for making you that lovely concoction that has you panting like a whore.”

Chekov bowed his head and kissed McCoy’s boot.

“Oh come now, is that the best you can do for your former master? Thank him properly.”

Chekov looked uncertainly towards Camlich, though he didn’t make eye contact.

“Go on, offer him your mouth, slave.”

McCoy looked sharply at Camlich, who regarded him with a toothy smile. “Don’t say I don’t reward my servants,” Camlich said. “You may not own him anymore, but I can be generous with sharing my toys when the mood strikes me. Slave,” he said sharply. “Did you not hear?”

Chekov rose up on his knees and nuzzled his face against the front of McCoy’s breeches, looking up at him entreatingly. McCoy saw another time, in his quarters, with Chekov kneeling in front of him, panting, begging McCoy to be rough with him.

“You’re kind to be so generous,” McCoy heard himself saying. He was mildly surprised he’d managed to speak at all, what with rage thrumming in his ears and blood rapidly rushing to his cock as Chekov mouthed him through his pants.

“Mihran,” Camlich said. “I assume that slave of yours is trained to give you pleasure?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Go on then, Vulcan. Show us how you’ve been trained.”

McCoy understood, psychologically, what Camlich was doing. Even as Chekov dragged McCoy’s pants down his thighs so he could lick up and down the length of his cock, McCoy understood. This kind of voyeurism put him in a position of power not only over the slaves, but their former owners as well. If he’d really been an amoral owner, he would have been pathetically grateful for one more chance to be with Chekov.

As it was, McCoy tried to block out all thought of where he was, and concentrate on the familiar feel of Chekov tonguing the head of his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine they were on the Enterprise—a hurried fuck in his office, perhaps, when Chekov would tease him about not being able to get through the day without him. Or perhaps one of their rare evenings together, when they had hours to spend as they pleased, and Chekov on his knees was only a preface to a slow feast of sensation.

Chekov sucked McCoy into his mouth, bobbing his head enthusiastically, as if he couldn’t get enough. The drugs stripped away rational thought, McCoy knew, and triggered the need for release. He almost envied Chekov for having the help of rushing hormones to block out the reality of where he was. But no. He wouldn’t blame Chekov for this, and he wouldn’t hate himself for being here. He had to be here, or Chekov would be alone.

“He won’t break, Doctor,” Camlich snapped. “He can take more.”

McCoy grunted, and the memory rushed over him of Chekov saying nearly the same words, _”I will not break. I like is to give you pleasure. For you to take your pleasure with me, understand?”_ He rested his hand on Chekov’s neck, brushing his thumb over his nape gently, in counterpoint to the hard thrusts against Chekov’s throat.

Chekov groaned around him, and writhed against the floor as he sucked McCoy eagerly, almost desperately. McCoy blocked out the sight of Camlich watching him and grinning, blocked out the sounds Luka and Mihran were making from their couch, and concentrated on Chekov. He brushed a hand over his face, and Chekov’s eyes flicked up to lock on his. Chekov grabbed McCoy’s legs to pull him in further, as far as he could go, and swallowed hard.

With a strangled shout, McCoy bucked forward. The quick orgasm ripped through him unexpectedly, leaving him weak-kneed and seeing the world too sharply again. Chekov looked up at him, his eyes bright with the drug, but not completely insensible. He nuzzled his face against McCoy’s spent cock, and McCoy saw him close his eyes and breathe in his scent.

“Good boy. Now come here,” Camlich called.

McCoy righted his clothes as Chekov crawled to Camlich again. Mihran and Luka had ceased whatever they’d been doing and watched intently as Camlich petted Chekov.

“He is really a lovely, affectionate creature,” Camlich said. He leaned down close to Chekov’s face. “I am going to enjoy watching you break.” He settled back on his couch. “Yes, I want time to work on this one personally.”

Chekov sat back on his heels, uncertain. McCoy stood rooted to the spot. He couldn’t stand by and watch Camlich pull Chekov apart, but any move he made to stop Camlich would blow their cover. Luka sat up straight, on the couch, and Camlich glanced at him. “Don’t be jealous. I’ll get to you soon enough.”

“Guards,” Camlich called, and they appeared at his sides. “Take this one to my chambers and bind him. Oh, and bring my knives. I’ll want to hear if I can make him roar, this little Starfleet mouse.” He kicked his feet up on the couch and cocked his head thoughtfully. “If I put you in enough pain, perhaps you’ll find the voice those Usites took from you. What do you think, little one? It could turn out to be a cleansing experience.”

“Get up.” One of the guards grabbed hold of Chekov’s arm and pulled him up.

At that moment, Luka leaped off the couch. He launched himself at Camlich, bare-handed and screaming.

He only made it halfway. The closest guard jumped between him and Camlich, and struck him with the butt of his phaser rifle. Luka grunted and wheeled around for another attack. He jumped, and the same guard shoved him hard against the bulkhead. McCoy saw his leg hit, heard the terrible crack, and knew before Luka tried to get up and failed that the bone was broken. The guard went over as he was still struggling and kicked him in the stomach. Luka doubled over in pain, and the guard planted a boot on his back to keep him down.

Mihran leapt up. “I am so sorry, Viceroy. He’s never acted this way before.”

Camlich stood and brushed off his robes with a sour expression. “Lady Mihran, I suggest you teach this creature some respect. I won’t have my property showing defiance.”

“Yes, my lord.” She gave a deep curtsey.

“Doctor Annidar.” Camlich turned to him.

“If you want to keep him from going into shock, I can set his leg.”

“Let him suffer it for now,” said Mihran sharply. “The pain will teach him a lesson.”

Camlich continued as if neither of them had spoken. “Doctor, I want you to pick up some supplies for me from the infirmary in the slave barracks. I think we’ll need them in our work with Pasha this evening. Something to keep him awake and aware, and perhaps another dose of your lovely mix that’s keeping him so pliant. And anything else you think might be useful.”

“Of course, Viceroy.” McCoy was loathe to leave Chekov alone with this monster for even a few minutes, but he couldn’t very well refuse. He’d go to sickbay alright, but he’d be damned if he’d bring back anything that would help Camlich torture Chekov. If he had to fight off every guard on the ship and bring back an army of slaves, he’d do it. He’d bring something that would free them from Camlich once and for all.  
\--

Scotty's transporter calculations were, as usual, brilliant, but no one could predict the layout of the Viceroy's ship, and so his target had been an educated guess at where the cargo bay should be. Instead, Kirk found himself staring at a roomful of wide-eyed slaves. He scanned the room, quickly, but saw neither of the faces he sought.

Then a shout from a walkway above them caught his attention.

Spock was already firing. One guard pitched forward over the railing and hit the deck with an unflattering squelch. The other’s scream died in his throat with a gurgle as Spock’s phaser blast caught him in the chest. That left one for Kirk, running toward them at deck level. Kirk dodged, kicked the man in the back as he went by, and followed it up with a phaser blast to ensure he’d stay down.

Around them, the roomful of slaves had gone deathly silent. All stood frozen in their places, staring at the two strangers.

"This way,” said Spock. He headed toward the direction the guards had come.

Kirk turned to the nearest slave, a Deltan man who shrank away from his gaze. "You," he pointed. "Have you seen a Vulcan slave?"

He cringed, looking around the room, and did not answer.

"What about you?" Kirk turned to the next slave in the rough circle around them, a male Andorian, skinny to the point of starvation. "Have you seen a Terran? This tall, curly hair?"

"Jim, I do not believe they can help us," Spock said.

Kirk looked around the room once more, and saw only frightened faces with downcast eyes. "Maybe not.”

From the wall, Spock said. "I believe this is the exit.”

Kirk made it to wall where Spock was jimmying the door panel. He turned back to the crowd of cringing slaves. "Listen, all of you. We're not owners. We're here to depose those who would call themselves masters, so that none of you will be slaves ever again. Once we leave this room, stay here until one of us comes back, and we'll take you all to safety."

Blank stares greeted him.

"Captain, I believe this may be the wrong audience for such speeches."

"Fine,” Kirk said quietly. “I'm still not having any of them getting caught in the damn crossfire." He raised his voice again. "Listen. After this door is open, you will stay in this room. Am I understood?"

A weak chorus of "yes sir" and "yes master" drifted through the crowd.

"Close enough," Kirk muttered.

"Stand back." Spock backed away from the door and pushed a button on his tricorder. A pop and a puff of smoke emanated from the wall control panel. The door slid open with a dull thud. "I’m certain the door's alarmed.”

“Then we need to get somewhere other than here."

"Wait!" A young Talarian woman grabbed Kirk arm. "The slaves you asked about. They were taken away to be prepared for our master a few hours ago. They should be with him now."

"Do you know where his quarters are?"

She shook her head slowly, then her eyes widened as she focused on something behind Kirk.

He whirled, phaser raised, to see a figure in the doorway, wielding a dead guard’s gun.

“Jim?” McCoy said. He dropped the phaser to his side and stumbled forward to gather Kirk in a quick embrace. “It’s about damn time.”  
\--

Security lights in the hallways flashed an alert, and a siren blared at regular intervals as McCoy led them through the corridors the way he’d come, through a barely memorized pattern of right-left-second right-double back at the room, until he started to doubt he knew where he was going. Then he saw a glyph he was certain he didn’t recognize above a door and stopped short.

“Damnit,” McCoy snapped, looking back and forth down the hallway and recognizing nothing. “They’re around here somewhere. The Viceroy took Chekov and sent me to get supplies. I suppose backup counts as supplies. I think he took him back to his personal chambers. I don’t know where that—”

From down the hallway, a scream rose above the wail of the siren. All three of them turned to where it had come from.

“That’s not Chekov,” Kirk said.

“Luka.” McCoy gritted his teeth. The screams continued in short, urgent bursts. “Spock, quick. There’s a Vulcan. He’s--”

“Is he alone?”

“No, one owner, probably some guards. She’s a viper, Spock. Be—“

Spock was already speeding off down the hallway, toward the screaming.

“Careful,” McCoy finished.

“McCoy!” Kirk hissed. “Focus. Where’s Chekov?”

“Damnit. They took him. That bastard took him somewhere, God knows, and I can’t find him.”

“Here.” Kirk dug something out of his pocket and held it out to McCoy: Sulu’s collar.

“Damnit man, how is that going to help?”

“Just _take_ it already!” He shoved it into McCoy’s hand.

McCoy was about to protest that he didn’t have time for Kirk’s game when a powerful sensation struck him. Pain—sharp pain—and the cold grasp of fear. McCoy found himself running down a corridor he didn’t recognize, with Kirk in hot pursuit.

The collar in his hand seemed hot, almost burning to the touch as the pressure in his mind increased: screaming terror that spurred McCoy on. The pain solidified in his chest in sharp, hot lines that raked down his flesh like the bite of a blade.

The ship lurched, sending both McCoy and Kirk careening into the wall. It occurred to McCoy vaguely that there might be some kind of evasive maneuvering going on. McCoy got up first, under the driving influence of the cry in his mind.

“Bones, wait!” Kirk called behind him, but he couldn’t slow down. Chekov needed him, needed him right now, and he wouldn’t fail him again.  
\--

Alert sirens blared and emergency lights flashed as Spock rushed down the hallway where McCoy had pointed. He heard the screaming coming from a closed door and slid to a halt. The door panel looked simple enough, but the seconds it took him to decode the lock seemed interminable when accompanied by the continued screams.

At last the door slid open, and Spock drew his weapon.

Inside, a humanoid woman—not a snake at all—stood over a young slave writhing on the floor. If McCoy hadn’t said he was a Vulcan, Spock might not have recognized him as one: hair cropped close to his skull and eyes wild and insensible. It was he who was screaming. A jagged end of bone jutted from his shin. Green blood oozed sluggishly from the torn skin, and the woman’s foot pressed into the wound. She had a phaser leveled at the door.

“Drop your weapon,” she said. “Or he dies.”

Spock didn’t move.

She pressed her foot down on the wound, and a desperate scream clawed its way out of the young Vulcan.

Spock tossed his weapon down to the floor, far out of either of their reach. The woman smirked, but made no move to lower her own weapon. “I didn’t expect a Vulcan to come looking for him. No one came looking when we acquired him, after all.”

“We did not know—”

“You simply didn’t care, I imagine. What’s one damaged youth when you have an entire civilization to rebuild?” She lifted her foot slowly off the injured youth’s leg. “Luka, darling, they don’t care about you. They haven’t taken care of you as I have. Don’t worry, darling. I won’t let him take you away.

The Vulcan moaned and covered his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, blocking out both Spock and this woman who must be his owner.

“Back away from him,” Spock said warningly.

“I won’t. You’re on our ship, Vulcan. I don’t think it’s too late to be retrained, even for one as old as you. You’d never fetch a price as high as our Luka, of course, but you’d still be in demand. A Starfleet officer and a member of an endangered species. Certainly a coveted item for a true collector. What do you think, Luka, would he be a good acquisition?”

The woman pushed her foot once more against the Vulcan’s wound. “Answer me when I speak to you.” The slave pained moan came from deep in his throat. Spock gathered himself to charge.

Then the ship lurched to the side.

With a gasp, the woman toppled. Spock barely kept his footing, but he moved immediately to snatch up the woman’s phaser from where it had fallen. He pivoted to point the weapon, but stayed his hand when the young Vulcan—Luka—dragged himself across the floor and right into the line of fire.

The woman reached for her boot—perhaps for another weapon—but never made it. Luka pounced on her with a scream of rage. One hand closed around her throat, the other pressed against her temple. The woman screamed, but her cry cut off abruptly as her face went slack and her body rigid.

“Don’t!” Spock raced to pull Luka off, but was shoved back savagely. Spock picked himself up, only to be shaken again when the ship took another hit and canted wildly. He had no thought to spare for the battle outside when one still raged here.

Luka held her down for several more seconds, releasing that same barbaric howl. When he finally released her, she stared sightlessly at the ceiling, life extinguished.

Spock came quickly forward and caught the Vulcan youth as he slumped to the side, unmoving.  
\--

Led by the feeling of pain and fear that pulled him like a lifeline, McCoy sped back through the chamber they’d been in earlier, through a door to an inner chamber. As the door swung shut behind them, the flashing lights and the sound of the sirens disappeared. Just like Camlich to build a sound-proof torture chamber for his sick pleasures. McCoy kept moving through the next room and came face to face with two of Camlich’s guards.

“There are intruders,” one hissed. “Have you seen them?”

“Right here,” Kirk called from the door. He dropped them both before they had time to draw their weapons.

Kirk bypassed security by the simple expedient of shooting the control panel by the door. The doors parted with a whine, and McCoy darted inside.

Chekov lay tied to the room’s wide bed, with an alarmingly wide red stain fanning out beneath him. Viceroy Camlich stood above him. In the room’s dim light, the marking on Camlich’s face cast macabre shadows. The knife in his hand glinted evilly as he twisted it into Chekov’s side.

“Viceroy,” McCoy said. Camlich glanced up, and McCoy crossed the space between them in three quick steps. His arm came up, smooth as the motion of flicking a whip, and jabbed Camlich in the neck with a hypospray. “Got those supplies you wanted.”

He pushed Camlich away and didn’t wait to watch the body fall before darting to Chekov’s side.

To his amazement, Chekov looked up at him, smiling softly. “Len. Hello.”

“Don’t try to talk.” He pressed his hands to the wound Camlich had just carved in Chekov’s side. Hot blood flowed freely past his fingers. McCoy ripped off a strip of the sheet to pack into the wound and went looking for the next injury. No time. No time: the drug McCoy had given Chekov had set his heart beating overtime, pouring out his lifeblood faster than McCoy could stem the tide.

“They have not named the constellations here, yet. We can give them names together. See?” He lifted one red-smeared arm to point at the ceiling.

“Pavel, don’t. Stay with me, love. Please.” He cupped Chekov’s hand in his and brought it back down. Chekov’s skin was sticky-slick beneath his hand. “Jim! Tell them to beam us up! I have to get him to sickbay. Now!”

“I am not afraid of them, Len. Do not worry.” He sounded perfectly calm, and his eyes held none of the glassy stupor from earlier. “They light up the sky, like each is a tiny sun of a distant system. They are beautiful.”

“Don’t look at them.” McCoy took Chekov’s too-pale face in his hands to make him see. “Don’t love them more than me, Pavel, please. Hang on.”

Then the shimmering disorientation of the transporter beam carried them away.  



	8. Chapter 8

Chekov’s body felt heavy. His bones and flesh weighed him down until he thought he might not be able to breathe. But then air filled up his lungs, his heart pumped blood through his veins, and his eyes opened.

McCoy stood near the edge of his bed, back turned, snapping at someone. “His blood pressure’s fine, now leave us alone.”

“Len?”

McCoy turned around immediately and appeared at his bedside before Chekov could blink. “I’m here.” He gently lifted one of Chekov’s hands in his.

“I fell asleep,” Chekov said, but he knew that wasn’t right. After all, he was still so tired.

“You’re awake now.”

“No, I did not fall asleep,” he said. The memories began to drift into reach: the cold of Camlich’s ship, the rush of the drug in his blood, the bite of the knife into his flesh. “I was hurt.” He struggled to sit up.

“Take it easy, Pavel.” He pushed Chekov gently back down. “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in sickbay,” he said with a tentative smile. “My name is Pavel Andreievich Chekov, and I am in love with Leonard McCoy.”

“At least you remember the important things.”

He reached deep inside to dredge up the strength to smile. “Is everyone alright?” he asked.

“Fine, now that you are.”

“Hikaru?”

“On the bridge.”

“Luka?”

“With Spock. You need to get some rest.”

“Yes.” Sleep seemed to wrap tight around Chekov, dragging him down. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

McCoy squeezed his hand, and as Chekov drifted off again, he heard him whisper, “Always.”  
\--

“I’m pleased you managed to take the Viceroy alive,” Trenach said.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Kirk said, but there was no real heat behind his grumbling. Trenach—and by extension Starfleet Intelligence—seemed wholly pleased, and it was nice to be in favor with the authorities for once.

“With any luck we can get him to give up more of his syndicate contacts,” Trenach said. “He knows we have ample evidence against him. Have you found anything useful in your investigation of the base?”

“The away teams are still working through it all. We have a booby-trapped lunar base and more than a dozen ships to process, not to mention the operation on Ranii. No one’s questioning any of the refugee slaves until my medical and psychology personnel are satisfied that they’re ready.”

“Of course, Captain,” Trenach said, soundly vaguely affronted.

“I’ll feel a lot better when those refugee processing ships gets here. We’ve only taken the worst cases on board, but those temporary lodgings we’ve got set up in the cargo bays can’t be comfortable.”

“Are they less comfortable than slave barracks?”

“Touché.”

The door slid open to reveal Spock, holding a data padd at a precise angle in front of him. “Captain. I did not realize you were in conference.” He nodded to the Commander. “Mister Trenach.”

“Mister Spock.”

“It’s alright, Spock. I was just bringing the Commander up to speed on our clean-up efforts. What’d you bring me?”

“Lieutenant Uhura’s report from the lunar base.” Spock handed him the padd. “She has recovered extensive records about communications with trading partners all over the sector, as well as with other syndicate operations.”

“They just left those records lying around?” Trenach asked.

“Not at all,” said Spock. “They were heavily encrypted.”

“Not heavily enough to stop my crew,” Kirk said with an air of pride.

“No, sir,” Spock replied.

“If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I’d like to meet with Lieutenant Uhura and examine those records as soon as possible.” Trenach stood. “And Captain.” He stuck out his hand, and Kirk shook it suspiciously. “Congratulations on a commendable job. Please pass my compliments on to the mission team.”

“I will.” Kirk watched him go, then turned to Spock. “Thanks for breaking that up. He was being polite. It was weird.”

“That, as you say, is what friends are for.”

“Glad they’re making progress down there.” Kirk started to look at the padd, then remember something else he wanted to ask. “Hey, how’s your Vulcan?”

“His name is Luka,” Spock said, a sudden sharp edge in his voice.

“Alright,” Kirk said slowly. “How is Luka?”

Spock unbent marginally, and took a seat at the table next to Kirk. “His injuries are healing well. He killed that woman mind to mind, with the raw power of his emotions. Few have done such a thing and come through the experience...whole.”

“So how is he really?” Kirk asked. As successful as the mission had been, he knew this one slave meant a lot to Spock, and to everyone on the mission. “Last I heard, he was still unconscious.”

“I have spoken with him,” Spock said. Then he hesitated. “After Doctor M’Benga treated him, I attempted a mind-meld.”

“Spock! Should you really be doing that with someone so traumatized? Couldn’t you get, I don’t know,” he waved a hand vaguely, “pulled in?”

“Doctor M’Benga supervised the proceeding,” Spock said, and Kirk could have sworn he looked guilty. “Perhaps it was unwise. I only wanted to see if he would regain consciousness.”

“See if he would? Does that mean he did?”

“It is possible my presence helped ground him. He is conscious and speaking, but he is not well,” Spock said. He showed no outward signs of emotional turmoil beyond a furrowed brow, but Kirk knew how deeply Spock’s loyalty to his people ran. In fact, in a different universe, Spock would have left the Enterprise to help with rebuilding his culture on New Vulcan, so Kirk didn’t buy Spock’s detachment from this situation.

“Is there anything we can do for him?”

“The mind-healers on New Vulcan have had much experience dealing with mental trauma in the past years. I am optimistic that they can help him. He is not a killer at heart, this much I can tell from touching his mind.”

“We’ll do everything we can for him, Spock. I promise,” Kirk said. Spock nodded, and the tension in his face eased a fraction. “And what about Chekov?”

“He is resting. Doctor McCoy spoke to him when he woke up this morning.”

“And?” Kirk prompted.

“And he seems… subdued.”

“We came really close to losing him, Spock. Too close.”

“I am aware.”

“Do you think he’s alright?” Kirk asked.

“Ensign Chekov?” Spock raised an eyebrow.

“No, Bones. He seemed strange.”

“He is spending a great deal of time tending to the refugees, despite his staff’s repeated admonitions to rest.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Bones,” Kirk mused. “Can’t leave a job undone. Is he freaking out?”

“Sir?” The eyebrow was back.

“About whatever happened on that planet or that ship or the whole damn mission. He won’t talk about it. Hasn’t even made his report.”

“You are the captain. You could order him to do so.”

“Do you think that’s likely to end well?” Kirk asked.

Spock inclined his head. “No, sir.”

“Spock…” Kirk sighed. “I made him go.”

“It was his decision.”

“I pushed him into it,” Kirk said. He pushed out of his chair and paced the length of the small room. “What if that was the wrong move? We don’t know what happened to them on this mission, beyond Sulu’s basic summary. McCoy could be as torn up as Luka, but he’d die before admitting it.”

“Jim.” Spock caught Kirk by the shoulder to stop his pacing. “Doctor McCoy successfully completed his mission, and all of his team members returned intact. Even by your unrealistically high standards, this is a victory. If Doctor McCoy does not see that yet, he will in time. Have patience.”  
\--

McCoy ducked around the flimsy metal frame that separated this section of the makeshift medical station in the cargo bay. His patient sat on a low bed, head down, looking as lost as McCoy had ever seen a man look. “Luka?”

He started, and when he saw McCoy, his eyes widened.

“It’s Doctor McCoy. If you want me to leave, I understand.”

“No, I know who you are,” Luka said.

McCoy stayed where he was. “Doctor M’Benga asked me to check on your leg. I can send someone else, if you’d rather.”

“I didn’t know you were really a doctor.”

“Yes, I’m a doctor, not a slave owner. Sorry for the deception.” McCoy stepped in and held up his medical scanner. “Put your leg up?”

Without looking away from him, Luka swung his bandaged leg up onto the bed and rolled his pant leg up above the knee.

McCoy pulled up a chair and began unwrapping the bandage. The silence stood between them, thin and brittle, until McCoy said, “Listen. I’m sort of the local expert on dealing with freed slaves. And by expert, I mean I’m the one who helped Chekov when we first got him back.”

“Who’s Chekov?”

“Who is--?” McCoy looked up to see if Luka was making a joke, then remembered how little Luka knew of who they really were. “Pasha,” McCoy said, and Luka nodded. “His real name is Pavel Andreievich Chekov.”

“I see. I do not know my name. Commander Spock says that he will help me try to regain my memories when my condition is more stable.”

“Well, he helped Chekov get his memories back. If anyone here can help you, it’s Spock.”

“Yes.”

McCoy pulled off the end of the bandage and turned to throw it in the disposal. When he turned back, Luka had his eyes shut tight, and was gripping the edge of the bed with all his might. “What? Are you hurt? Is it your leg?”

“No.” Luka gave a full-body shudder, then pried his fingers off the edge of the bed one at a time, until he was could sit with his hands in his lap again. “I apologize. I shouldn’t—a _Vulcan_ shouldn’t be so weak. If I had proper mental discipline, all this would not have happened.”

McCoy looked at him sharply. “Who told you that?”

“It’s only logical. True Vulcan discipline purges all emotion. I cannot even contain mine. That is why Commander Spock can’t bear to touch me.”

“He _said_ that?” McCoy asked. A righteous fury kindled somewhere just inside his ribcage.

“He did not have to. If I were in his place, I could not,” Luka said bitterly. “My mind is tainted, my discipline shattered. I… Doctor, I killed her. I killed the Lady Mihran. I felt her mind die.”

“And the world is well rid of her. Listen.” Luka looked at him with a spark of hope, and McCoy’s rage died in the wake of profound determination. “Listen to me. I won’t say what’s happened hasn’t changed you. Chekov still deals with his memories of slavery every day. But you’re free now. You’re not a slave to her, or to your past. Understand?”

“Yes,” Luka said softly.

McCoy picked up his tricorder and scanned Luka’s leg. “Bone’s almost knit. The skin is re-healing nicely, too. A few more treatments, and you’ll be walking again.” He dug a new roll of bandage out of his bag and began re-wrapping Luka’s leg. “How’s that brand? Need me to take a look?”

“It is almost completely healed,” Luka said. “They have been using that machine you mentioned, the dermal regenerator.” He fell silent for a moment, then asked, “Is… Chekov alright? They told me he was injured.”

McCoy’s hands came to a stop, and he had to remind them forcibly to keep bandaging. “He’ll be fine. He was… He’ll be fine.”

“I saw his memories of you,” Luka said.

McCoy didn’t have to ask who he meant. “Which memories?”

“Impressions, mostly. Feelings. They made me doubt him, for I could not understand how a slave could feel so much love for his master.”

McCoy sighed. “He did love me.”

“Don’t be foolish, doctor.” Luka gave him a hard look. “In the mind, emotion says what words cannot. His love for you runs through to the core of him. He could not root it out without destroying himself.”

“There’s a comforting thought,” McCoy said.

“I am merely pointing out that your feelings for one another create a perfect balance. It defies logic to deny your need for each other.”

McCoy finished fastening the end of Luka’s bandage, and shook his head. “Heaven forbid I defy logic.”

“Indeed.”

McCoy snorted. “When you get to know Spock better, you’ll figure out why that’s funny.” He stood and hefted his med kit . “Now keep off that leg until M’Benga clears you.”

Luka nodded and placed both feet on the floor gingerly.

Without thinking, McCoy dropped to a crouch and caught Luka’s hands in his. “Luka, you’re not tainted. Talk to Spock again. If I know him, he and Jim are already planning how to get you some help. Besides, under that logical mask, Spock has a big, squishy heart.”

Luka raised an eyebrow. “Squishy? I thought his shared ancestry was human.”  
\--

Sulu waited until Chapel went into the store room, then sped across sickbay to the private rooms in the back. He found the one he wanted, slid inside, and pushed the door closed just as Chapel was returning. When he turned, Chekov was sitting up in bed, holding his arms open in greeting. “Hikaru!”

“Hey.” Sulu went to him and wrapped him in his arms, glad of the evidence that Chekov was real and whole. “I heard you tried to get out of coming back to write your mission report.”

“I heard you chased down seventeen ships trying to flee the lunar base.”

Sulu grinned. He wasn’t sure what stories they were telling around the ship, but that count probably wasn’t far off. He hadn’t been entirely idle while Kirk and Spock were staging their daring rescue. “Well, don’t believe everything you hear.”

“I will wait to reserve judgment until I have the facts,” Chekov said with a grin. “After all, I missed the whole thing.”

Sulu’s good mood faltered at that. He sank down on the edge of the bed and took Chekov’s hand. “I’m sorry I left you.”

“Don’t do that,” Chekov said quickly.

“I have to. I’m sorry you had to go through that without me. I swore to protect you.”

“You did protect me.” Chekov put his hand on Sulu’s face to make him meet his eyes. “It is as we talked about. You did what we had to for the mission. And you succeeded.”

“Well.” Sulu felt his cheeks heating, and he shrugged off Chekov’s praise. “Did Kirk tell you we found all their short-range transmission equipment?”

“No, he did not.”

“Uhura has a crew down there now working on it. They should be able to track all the people these bastards have been sending messages to. Once we catch up with them, we can find out who their contacts are, and so on, until we root out the whole web.”

“It’s what we hoped for.”

“Hey, I’m sorry I ever thought about trying to talk you out of going. Now that I’ve seen what it was like, I know why we had to do this.”

“See, you should listen more often to your wise friend.” His grin faded a little. “Where is McCoy?”

“He’s around,” Sulu said brightly. Then, “Actually, I haven’t seen him.”

“Is he… alright?”

“He’s fine.” Sulu thought about it for a second. “Pavel, I think he’s afraid.”

“Of what is he afraid?”

“He’s afraid of what we did down there. Hell, I’m afraid of what we did down there, and I’m not the one who had to do most of it.”

“I already said, you did what you had to do!”

“I know that, Pavel.” He grabbed Chekov’s hand again. “I know. And I think if he really took the time to think about it, he’d know it too. Instead, he’s doing what he usually does.”

“Is he brooding?” Chekov asked suspiciously.

“He may be brooding,” Sulu confessed.

“No, this is good. It gives me a chance to go rescue him, for a change.” Chekov looked cheered, which was a sight Sulu could get used to quickly. “Hikaru? Thank you for going. Thank you for knocking sense into me.”

“Hey,” Sulu said, laying a hand on his heart. “Any time you need someone to knock sense into you, call you out, or take you down a peg, you know who to call.”

Chekov shoved him off the bed.  
\--

Chekov had apparently spent his quota of luck on surviving his mission, because he couldn’t manage to find a way out of sickbay. He was beginning to understand why the captain always had to be dragged in under duress. He’d argued his case to M’Benga, who remained completely unimpressed. He’d tried to sneak out twice, only to be marched back by attending medical personnel like an errant teenager. He’d petitioned the captain himself for an early release, to no avail. At last, Chekov was able to use wide eyes and deep sighs to bend Nurse Chapel’s resolve.

“I want to see the others. The ones we rescued,” he pleaded.

“You don’t need to go down there,” Chapel said. “Crew are looking after them. You’ve done enough.”

“Please, Christine. I need to go.”

She sighed, and pointed a warning finger at him. “I won’t stop you. Unless you violate quarantine procedure. Then I’ll have you back here strapped to a biobed before you can blink. _Ponyatno_?”

“ _Ponyal._ ”

“Good. Off you go.”

Chekov jumped out of bed and planted a kiss on her cheek on his way out the door.

“Pavel,” she called. “He should be in cargo bay four.”  
\--

McCoy had just finished giving an immune booster shot to a Talarian refugee when Chekov appeared beside him. “Chapel was right. You are out here working yourself too hard.”

Seeing Chekov standing there, outside of sickbay, dressed in his uniform and grinning like a fool, McCoy couldn’t help gathering him into an embrace. “I knew I couldn’t hide from you forever.”

“It was foolish to try.”

“Probably.” McCoy grabbed his bag and steered Chekov over to the partitioned area the medical personnel had set up to take breaks and catch a few minutes of rest when they could. He threw down his bag to take Chekov’s face in his hands and kiss him. He was real, and alive, and here. When McCoy had finally reassured himself of Chekov’s existence, he released him. “Sorry. I missed you.”

“No, I am sorry.” Chekov grabbed McCoy’s hand and pressed it to his forehead. “I am sorry I had to put myself in such danger. I am sorry for the things you had to do.”

“Don’t be sorry.” McCoy pulled Chekov’s hand down. “Don’t ever be sorry for that. We all knew what we were getting into.”

“Alright. I won’t be sorry if you won’t.” He looked hard at McCoy, as if he were taking stock. “You did not break.”

“Neither did you,” McCoy said.

“I never thought you would.”

“I had my doubts.”

“And now?” Chekov asked, and uncertainty crept into his voice again.

McCoy would give Chekov what he needed to silence that doubt once and for all. “Now I know.”

“Know what?”

“Know that you’re stronger than I ever imagined. You are. . I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out. I know I haven’t always treated you the way you wanted, the way you deserved. But I’m going to do better. I trust you to tell me what you need. That is…” McCoy stumbled to a stop, suddenly panicked at the thought that he might be humiliating himself with all this monologuing. “I mean, if you want me. If you want this—”

Chekov pressed a finger to his lips. “You can be very dense sometimes, for a highly educated man. Yes, I want you. And thank you.”

When Chekov took his finger away, McCoy asked, “For what?”

“Oh no,” Chekov laughed. “I am not keeping track again of who owes who how many apologies or favors!”

“But that seemed to end up with some fairly satisfactory ways, if I remember correctly,” McCoy said.

“I am certain I do not know what you are talking about,” Chekov said coyly. “Besides, I am definitely ahead in being owed favors.”

“You are, are you?” McCoy asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I am smart enough to come down here and stop you before you brood yourself into oblivion.”

“Brood!” McCoy scowled. “I do not brood.”

“Fret?”

“No.”

“Sulk?”

“Never.”

“Pout?”

“Pavel!” McCoy, sensing that he had no chance of winning a verbal sparring match, chose the wiser path and closed the matter with a kiss.  



End file.
